


When Life Gives You Dragons

by Spottedfyre



Series: The Divines have an interesting taste in champions... [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Het, M/M, Male Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 50,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spottedfyre/pseuds/Spottedfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcel came to Helgen as a prisoner of the Thalmor, after spending a lifetime on their bad side in defense of the empire he loves. Edwin, as a young cook prepared to die for a rebellion he couldn't fight in. When Alduin's return drags them together, each finds himself on a path he'd never have expected, or found on his own. Covers Main Quest, Dark Brotherhood, and Dawnguard quests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, and welcome to my fanfic! This is a sort-of sequel to my Oblivion story, "The Gods Must be Crazy", though it isn't necessary to read that before starting this, and I will do my best to explain and give proper context to anything in it that gets referenced here. I hope you enjoy reading this, and would greatly appreciate any and all feedback you may have for me. Nothing makes me happier than finding ways I can improve my writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All I own here are the OCs.

Edwin awoke with a jolt as the cart rolled over a bump in the road. For what wasn't the first time, he wondered whether accepting that job as a cook in Jarl Ulfric's camp had been a good idea. Sure, he got to wear a Stormcloak uniform and his father didn't think he was a complete failure anymore, but he'd really have preferred to not get caught in that Imperial ambush. At least he knew that Ulfric's cause was justified, though. Anyone that thought a young man armed with naught but a ladle and a kettle of lukewarm stew was enough of a threat to capture alongside trained soldiers had no right to run an empire.

Gods, even the horse thief belonged on that cart more than he did. While he knew it would probably have just gotten him killed, he wished he would have at least tried to fight off the Imperials instead of surrendering like a milk drinker. At least then he could know that if he was headed for execution, he could die with honor and find a place for himself in Sovngarde. But there was little use in dwelling on that now.

The presence of General Tullius and several Thalmor agents in Helgen as the train of carts passed through the city made it hard to imagine anything but an execution as his final destination. Most of his cart-mates seemed to be of the same opinion, and as they were being unloaded in a large, open section of the city with an ominous-looking stone block set up in its center the horse thief tried to make a run for it. Edwin was halfway tempted to follow him until a pair of Imperial archers turned the man into a human pincushion. At least a beheading would be quicker.

For some reason only the gods knew, he was the second prisoner called to the chopping block. He managed to keep himself from retching as he knelt beside the corpse of one of his former comrades, and tried not to look down as he laid his head in the still-warm pool of blood on the block. They hadn't even bothered to remove the first man's head from the box beneath him, and its bloody stump and lifeless, staring eyes unnerved him more than he cared to admit. Whatever happened, he couldn't let himself show any fear. Nords died with honor. The headsman's axe glistened an almost beautiful shade of red in the sunlight as he raised it, and Edwin squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for it to fall.

The blow never came, however. Instead, he heard screaming and the world around him shook with some kind of terrible force. Edwin opened his eyes to see a black dragon perched atop the tower beside him, staring right at him as it prepared to let loose another attack. The world shook again, and then everything went dark.

-Meanwhile…-

To say that Marcel was having a bad day would have been an understatement. Well, it had been more of a bad week, really, but things were not going well for him either way. Leaving Cyrodiil for Skyrim had seemed like a great idea at the time; Skyrim was one of the provinces that the Thalmor had the least influence in, and he'd grown tired of them breathing down his neck constantly. What he hadn't planned for was running into worse things than Thalmor agents once he got there.

He'd barely made it over the border before a sabre cat had pounced on him out of nowhere and given him a good mauling that had been immortalized in the lovely new scars on his face. After that, a group of bandits had stumbled across him, robbed him of everything but his smallclothes, and left him for dead in the snow. He had then had the good fortune of being along the route of a Thalmor patrol led by none other than Skyrim's First Emissary Elenwen herself. Who had immediately recognized him, commanded that he be healed well enough to keep him alive, and taken him as a prisoner. And now it looked like he was scheduled for execution alongside several cartloads of Stormcloaks.

"Can't we talk this over?" He asked as he tried to keep pace with Elenwen's horse. Being tied to a saddle was not fun. "For old times' sake? You're not really going to kill your best friend, are you?"

"You're not really stupid enough to think that us being playmates nearly two centuries ago will convince me to spare you, are you?" Elenwen replied, bringing her horse to a halt. "How an elf could choose to ally himself with humans instead of his own kind as… dramatically as you have is quite beyond me."

"You do remember it, though. I knew you still cared." Marcel smiled at the irritated sigh, followed by a ghost of a smile, the Altmer let out. "And as I recall, us Dunmer are just as inferior to you as humans are. Besides, I'm also half Imperial. It's not my fault I identify more with the half I don't look like."

"Former friend or not, I couldn't let you go if I wanted to. You've hindered our cause too much over the years for me to let you slip through my fingers without severe consequences."

"I'm not saying you should just let me go," the Dunmer said. "Just… maybe loosen that rope attaching me to your saddle a bit. I can run off into the forest, you can reprimand your soldiers for not tying a more secure knot, and everyone can live happily ever after."

"Absolutely not. I-" Whatever Elenwen had intended to say was drowned out by a powerful explosion of some kind and the sound of panicked screams somewhere nearby.

Before any of them could make sense of what was happening, what could only have been a dragon flew over them, and set the houses around them on fire. Elenwen and her fellow Thalmor agents abandoned him in favor of getting themselves safely inside the town's large, stone keep and, through either deliberate sabotage on Elenwen's part or a fortuitously unsecure knot, Marcel was able to break free of her horse. All the city gates were securely closed, so he had little option but to go towards whatever was unfolding at the town's center. Hopefully the dragon and fires would keep everyone from noticing his bound hands and ragged prisoner's garb.

As he drew closer to where the executions must have been held, the flames grew larger and hotter, and he had to fight his way past a small army of fleeing townspeople and soldiers, Imperial and Stormcloak alike. Once he was alone except for the corpses of a few unlucky sods that couldn't outrun the dragon, he looked for something he could use to cut the ropes off his wrists. A large axe resting by a stone block served his purpose well enough, and he was about to go looking for a place to hide until things had died down a bit when he noticed that one of the corpses surrounding him was still breathing.

Marcel was fairly sure it was a Nord, and while he was wearing a Stormcloak uniform he looked like he was barely out of his teens. His light brown hair was streaked with blood oozing out of a gash on the man's forehead where he must have knocked his head against something in the chaos of the dragon attack. Whatever had happened to him, a closer inspection revealed that he was definitely still alive, but wouldn't be for long if the dragon decided to stop torching the other side of the town and make another pass over the place its rampage had started. Even if the dragon left him alone, he wasn't likely to last very long on his own, especially against any animals or humans who came along to scavenge what they could from the town's remains.

Normally the Dunmer would have just left him there, but for some reason he couldn't force himself to do it. He didn't know the man, and while he didn't know much about the Stormcloak rebellion he did know that they weren't exactly friendly to anything that wasn't a Nord. Especially elves. He had no way of knowing how this one would react if he woke up and realized he'd been helped by a Dunmer. Still, he did seem like he was young enough to be open to different ways of viewing the world, and even if he did react badly he probably wouldn't be much of a threat. It just wouldn't have felt right to condemn someone who hadn't even grown a beard yet to that kind of death, either. The dragon making its way closer to their location finally settled it.

Inwardly thanking the gods that the man wasn't as broadly built as most of his countrymen, Marcel dragged the unconscious Nord into a sturdy-looking stone tower and waited for him to wake up.

-Later-

Edwin awoke to find himself safely inside and away from the dragon. He tried to sit up, only to fall back to the floor with a groan when his head felt as though someone had taken a warhammer to it. He gingerly prodded at his forehead and found a rough strip of fabric wrapped around it in a makeshift bandage. It was damp, though an inspection of his fingers revealed that it wasn't with blood, thank the Nine.

"Good, you're awake," a decidedly non-Nordic voice said from somewhere near his feet.

Curious as to who had moved him, and whether he had only been saved from the dragon to meet his end at the hands of another Imperial headsman, Edwin sat up again, more slowly this time, and found himself looking into the red eyes of a Dunmer.

He was dresses in a ragged set of clothes, with a wide strip of cloth missing from the shirt that had probably been used to bandage Edwin's head. The dark gray skin on the elf's wrists had been chafed to a shade of red that almost matched his hair and, as the patch of facial hair beneath his lower lip made abundantly clear, would have been more than capable of growing the beard that the gods seemed so intent on denying the young Nord. It was clear enough that the Dunmer had also been a prisoner, though he had no idea who had taken him captive, or why. It did, however, seem safe to assume that he was not a Stormcloak.

"Who are you?" Edwin asked.

"Marcel. Are you all right? I found a healing potion on that corpse, but it probably wasn't enough to completely heal that head wound of yours," the Dunmer replied, gesturing to the body of one of Edwin's former comrades.

"I'm fine," the Nord said, shakily forcing himself to stand. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "My name's Edwin."

"It's nice to meet you." Marcel got to his feet as well. "Do you think you can travel? I'd rather not spend the night here if we can avoid it."

"We?" Grateful as he was that the Dunmer had helped him, Edwin wasn't sure he liked the idea of them traveling together. He'd never live it down if anyone found out that he'd needed help from a gray-skin, and for all he knew Marcel was working with the Imperials. Though it wouldn't have made much sense for anyone on their side to help a Stormcloak…

"Whatever your plans are, I'm going with you. I didn't drag you through a burning town so you could wander off and get yourself killed."

"I don't need your help," Edwin growled. He was tired of other people seeing him as weak, but at least it made sense when it was coming from someone who was bigger than he was. Even if it was probably justified given his condition, he couldn't accept being treated like a weakling by someone smaller than him, especially when that someone was an elf.

"All right. Let's see you go off on your own, then."

Edwin managed to make it out of the tower and into the ruined town before he realized that, while he probably could have walked anywhere that wasn't too far away, he wasn't going to be fighting off anything stronger than a newborn kitten for a while. The sun, low in the sky as it was, was incredibly bright, and if he moved too quickly or suddenly his head ached and the world around him seemed to spin.

"We can travel together," he sighed, leaning against the side of the tower.

"That's what I thought. So, where are we going?"

"We should go to the nearest hold capital, and tell the Jarl about the dragon attack. Someone needs to spread the word about what happened here, and there's no guarantee that anyone else made it out alive. Our best bet is probably Whiterun, but it's a bit of a walk…"

"We'd better get started, then," Marcel said, picking through a pile of rubble near the tower's base.

"We should. There's another town around here somewhere. Riverwood, I think its name was. It might be best if we stopped there for the night and finished our walk to Whiterun in the morning."

"That's fine by me." Marcel had moved most of the rubble out of the way, and dragged the corpse of an Imperial soldier out of what was left.

Edwin cringed as the Dunmer stripped the man of his armor and put it on, his heart sinking when he saw his traveling companion wearing an Imperial uniform. Even if that soldier had sided with the Imperials, it felt wrong to stand by and let someone rob his corpse. He supposed there was no helping it, though; without robbing any corpses, Marcel would have been stuck wearing those tattered rags for the gods knew how long. He looked around for a weapon for himself as the Dunmer fastened the Imperial soldier's sword to his belt, and settled for a sturdy-looking warhammer sticking out of another pile of rubble. He doubted he'd be able to swing anything more than once, but hopefully if he was wielding a warhammer he wouldn't need to.

Once they'd picked up everything useful or valuable in they could find, they left the ruined town and struck off in what Edwin hoped was the direction of Riverwood and Whiterun.

"So, what were they going to chop your head off for?" Marcel asked once they were a fair distance down the road.

"I was working as a cook in a Stormcloak camp and there was a raid…"

"The Imperial Legion is executing cooks now? That's not ridiculous at all…"

"…Why were you there?" Edwin asked. He'd assumed that, whatever he was a prisoner for, the Dunmer had at least started out on the Imperials' side. But if he was willing to criticize their actions, maybe he'd misjudged the elf.

"I pissed off the Thalmor."

"How did you do that?"

"Everything, or just the most recent part? Because those are very different answers."

"By the Nine, how long is your history with them?"

"Well over a hundred years. Closer to two, really."

"That's explanation enough for me," Edwin said. "Does that mean you're not working with the Imperials, either?"

Marcel sighed. "I am a loyal citizen of the Empire who happens to think that the best way to show that loyalty is interfering with the Thalmor's plans when I can."

Edwin was silent for a moment, trying to figure out what to make of his traveling companion. On the one hand, he and the Dunmer were in agreement on their opinion of the Thalmor. On the other, their thoughts on the Empire itself clearly differed. Still, some common ground was better than none, and he just couldn't find it in himself to dislike the elf.

"Whatever side you're on, thanks for helping me get out of Helgen," he finally said. Edwin saw no purpose in making enemies where he didn't have to, and anyone that was willing to drag an unconscious stranger to safety was probably worth trying to befriend.

"Thanks for getting over that pride of yours," Marcel replied, the corners of his mouth turning up into a small smile.

The rest of their journey to Riverwood passed in a pleasant silence, with both parties content in the knowledge that whatever the next day brought, at least they wouldn't have to face it alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter two! The planned pairings for this have switched up a bit, because as I was finalizing my plans for this fic's future, Edwin ended up making a lot more sense paired off with Serana than his original love interest. This is the last time anything on this fic is changing, I promise. This is what happens when I get too far ahead of myself with new projects... I apologize for any inconvenience that this has caused. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.

Riverwood wasn't a particularly large or well-fortified town, but Marcel was tired enough that even the piles of rubble back in Helgen would have seemed like a good place to spend the night. Its inn was small, but clean and warm, and the Dunmer had found more than enough septims on the corpse he'd taken his armor from to pay for a room for the night and some clean bandages for Edwin's head. It was too late to visit the general goods store and see if they had any healing potions in stock, but the Nord seemed well enough to wait until morning to get himself fully healed. He could have sworn he'd seen the innkeeper somewhere before, but he was too tired to care and he didn't suppose it would have mattered much if he had, anyway.

The bed was soft, and more than warm enough to keep out the cold Skyrim weather with Edwin there to share it with him. Not that the cold would have been much of a problem in his current state; he'd been asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Edwin's head had healed except for a slight headache the next morning, but they decided to see if the general goods store, the Riverwood Trader, had a healing potion before going to Whiterun just to be safe. They opened the door to find a man and woman arguing by the counter.

"Well, one of us has to do something!" the woman snapped.

"I said no, Camilla! No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!"

"Well what are you going to do then, Lucan? Let's hear it!"

"We are done talking about this," Lucan said, looking as though he was going to say more until he turned his head and noticed them standing there. "Oh, a customer. Sorry you had to hear that. I don't know what you may have heard, but the Riverwood Trader is still open for business."

"Did something happen?" Marcel asked. If the shopkeepers decided to start arguing again, Edwin wasn't going to be the only one with a splitting headache…

"Well, yes, we did have a bit of a… break-in. But we still have plenty to sell. Robbers were only after one thing. An ornament, solid gold. In the shape of a dragon's claw."

"…You don't happen to remember what these robbers look like, do you?" It was a long shot at best, but if dragons were flying about again then he didn't see why the bandits who'd taken his belongings couldn't have been behind this robbery as well.

"Just ordinary bandits, really. Fur armor, more muscle than sense."

"You didn't happen to get a look at their leader, did you?"

"I can't say I did. Why? You looking for someone?"

"That's one way of putting it. My friend and I have business in Whiterun today, but as soon as that's over I might pay a visit to these robbers of yours." Marcel was well aware of Edwin's eyes intently focusing on him, though if the boy had any objections to his plan he didn't seem as though he was inclined to voice them.

"You could? I've got some coin coming in from my last shipment. It's yours if you can bring my claw back. Now, if you're going get those thieves, you should head to Bleak Falls Barrow, northeast of town," Lucan replied. He then turned to Camilla, "That means you don't have to go now, do you?"

"Fine. At least someone around here has the initiative to get off his ass and do something about this," Camilla said, muttering to herself as she climbed the stairs leading to what were probably the store's living quarters.

"Well, now that that's over with, was there something you came in here for?" Lucan asked.

"I'd like to buy a healing potion, if you have any in stock."

"I think I've got one or two around here somewhere," the Imperial said, rummaging around beneath the store counter for a few moments before placing a small, red bottle on the counter in front of him. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

"That's all. How much will it cost?"

"Just take it. Consider it an advance on your payment for taking out those thieves."

"Thanks," the Dunmer said, taking the potion and exiting the store. Once they were outside, he tossed it to Edwin.

"So, what was that about?" Edwin asked after downing the potion.

"I was robbed by a group of bandits on my way over the border. It's possible that they went this way afterwards, and if they're the same group that robbed that store then I'm hoping they'll still have at least some of my gear."

"You're really going to try to take out a whole bandit camp by yourself?" one of the Nord's eyebrows was raised in obvious doubt.

"That's the plan."

"You're sure you don't want any company?"

"Thanks for the offer, but I'll be all right," Marcel replied. Bandits could be a challenge for even the most experienced adventurers, and he didn't want to be responsible for anything bad happening to Edwin. If he did find himself a companion, he'd want someone who'd had more time to live their life and gain experience. And had been trained as a fighter, not a cook.

"If you're sure…" Edwin looked as though he may have intended to protest the Dunmer's plan further, but was cut off by the town blacksmith calling them over.

"Ain't every day we get visitors in Riverwood," the man said, looking them over. "Especially ones dressed like you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Marcel asked. He knew that his armor didn't fit him particularly well, but he didn't think that that pointing it out was really worth the effort the blacksmith had put into it.

"This is the first time I've seen a Stormcloak and an Imperial Legion soldier traveling together."

Now it made sense. "We ran into some trouble in Helgen and this was the first armor I could find."

"What kind of trouble?" the man didn't seem to be any less suspicious.

"There was a dragon," Edwin said before Marcel could think of a more logical explanation.

"What? A dragon? In Helgen? That explains what I saw earlier... flying down the valley from the south... I was hoping I was wrong about what I thought it was..."

"Well, you weren't," Marcel said. If that was the story the man wanted to believe, than he wasn't going to question it. "I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't seen it flying around and setting things on fire…"

"A dragon... here in Skyrim. What's this world coming to? First the war, now dragons... trouble loves company, they say..." the blacksmith sighed, shaking his head. "We need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever soldiers he can."

"That's what we were on our way to do. I don't suppose you have any armor I could trade this for?" the Dunmer asked, gesturing to his uniform. The last thing he and Edwin would need was for the people of Whiterun to think they looked suspicious. The news they were planning on bringing to the city would probably do that more than well enough. "I think Edwin's more attached to his uniform than I am to mine."

"Edwin?" the blacksmith shifted his attention to the young Nord, intently studying his face. "You're Edwin Head-Smasher, aren't you?"

"Yes," Edwin cringed. "It's good to see you again, Alvor."

"What were you doing in Helgen? Did the Imperials finally get around to dealing with your father's camp?"

"Not exactly…"

"That's a damn shame. What that mother of yours saw in that man, I'll never know…" Alvor turned his attention back to Marcel. "I have a set of leather armor I can trade you for that uniform. It should be about your size. It's inside my house; you two wait here."

"Head-Smasher?" Marcel asked once the man was out of earshot. Edwin must have been quite the interesting cook to earn himself a name like that.

Edwin cringed again. "Yes. My father is Hjornskar Head-Smasher; he's one of Jarl Ulfric's commanders."

"How did a Stormcloak commander's son end up working as a cook?"

"It's a long story… I'd rather not talk about it right now."

"Fair enough." It was clear that Edwin's family wasn't a subject he was overly comfortable with talking about, and Marcel saw no reason to press him for more information. "Do you live around here, then?"

"No, but my father's camp is nearby. Our house is in Markarth, about a day's ride west of here. My mother and I visited him a couple of times, though, and we lost our way and ended up in Riverwood the first time."

It was then that Alvor returned with the set of armor he'd promised. It was almost a perfect fit for the Dunmer, and it was obvious that it was worth more than his 'borrowed' Imperial Legion uniform. He wasn't about to object to the blacksmith's generosity, however, and he supposed he could justify it as payment for delivering news of the dragon attack to Whiterun. The people of Skyrim were surprisingly trusting… Or at least, the ones in this town were. Though if Riverwood's people were willing to put so much trust in complete strangers, he had no idea why the bandits had bothered with stealing Lucan's golden claw when they probably could have concocted some sort of lie to convince the man to allow them to take it with them when they left. Bandits definitely weren't hired for their intelligence…

With their business in Riverwood completed, Marcel and Edwin made their way to Whiterun. The city wasn't far from Riverwood, and it was still early in the afternoon by the time they reached its gates.

"Halt! City's closed with the dragons about. Official business only," a guard said as they approached.

"But that's why we're here; we have news about the dragons," Marcel replied. Why the guard thought that closing the city's gate would protect its citizens from a flying dragon, he would never know.

"Sure you do, gray-skin. You can tell the Jarl all about it once the city's open again. Not that we need any more of your kind living here…"

"It's true," Edwin said. "We were at Helgen when the dragon attacked."

The guard looked the Nord over for a moment before replying, "Fine, you can enter the city. But we'll be keeping an eye on you."

"Did that guard know your family, too?" Marcel asked as they walked through the gate.

"No. Most people just aren't overly fond of your kind around here," Edwin replied. "They think that you're all cowards and Imperial spies."

"Is that what you think?"

Edwin paused. "I don't know what I think. You're definitely not a coward, but I wouldn't be surprised if you were an Imperial spy."

"At least you're honest," the Dunmer sighed. He knew that Skyrim wasn't a particularly friendly place to live for anyone that wasn't a Nord, but refusing to believe a Dunmer only to readily accept the same information when it came from a Nord was ridiculous. And even if he was an Imperial spy, unless he was trying to smuggle recipes out of Skyrim there was no reason for him to be following Edwin around.

It didn't take them long to reach Dragonsreach, the home of Whiterun's Jarl. When they entered the castle, they found him arguing with an Imperial man. Before they could get close enough to get his attention, however, they were stopped by a Dunmer that appeared to be one of the Jarl's guards.

"What is the meaning of this interruption?" she demanded. "Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors."

"Alvor sent me. Riverwood is in danger," Edwin replied.

"It's all right, Irileth. I want to hear what he has to say," said the Jarl before Irileth had a chance to respond. "What's this about Riverwood being in danger?"

"A dragon destroyed Helgen and Alvor is afraid Riverwood is next," Edwin said, approaching the Jarl's throne. Marcel followed close behind him to offer the Nord his support if it was required, but after the reception he had received at the gates it seemed as though leaving most of the talking to Edwin was a good idea. Even if the Jarl was accepting enough of Dunmer to keep one as a bodyguard.

"Alvor? The smith, isn't he? Reliable, solid fellow. Not prone to flights of fancy... And you're sure Helgen was destroyed by a dragon? This wasn't some Stormcloak raid gone wrong?"

"Yes. I had a great view while the Imperials were trying to cut off my head," Edwin replied. It certainly wasn't how Marcel would have chosen to word his response, but he couldn't have said he wasn't expecting something similar to happen. For better or worse, Edwin seemed to be quite committed to the Stormcloak cause. The Dunmer just hoped that Whiterun's Jarl didn't have a different opinion on the civil war.

"Really? You're certainly... forthright about your criminal past. But it's none of my concern who the Imperials want to execute. Especially now. The lives of my people are more important than the punishment of a few prisoners of war." The Jarl turned to the man he had been arguing with earlier. "What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?"

"My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking in the mountains..." Irileth said.

"The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him," Proventus snapped, glaring at the Dunmer.

"Enough! Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once," the Jarl ordered.

"Yes, my Jarl," Irileth replied.

"We should not-" Proventus' protest was cut off by the Jarl.

"I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!"

"If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties," the Imperial said, leaving the Jarl's side.

"That would be best," Balgruuf replied, turning his attention back to Edwin. "Well done. You sought me out, on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it. Here, take this as a small token of my esteem." He presented the Nord with a set of iron armor.

"Thank you," Edwin said.

"There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps. Collect that friend of yours, and let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and... rumors of dragons."

As it turned out, the quest Balgruuf planned to send them on was to go into Bleak Falls Barrow and retrieve the Dragonstone it contained. Which, while the promise of a reward for their efforts cemented Marcel's decision to travel there, also meant that Edwin would be going with him. He just hoped that Commander Head-Smasher had taught his son something about fighting. Losing someone with as much enthusiasm for life and the things he believed in as Edwin over a rock would be a terrible waste. And, bizarre as it was, he had to admit that he'd grown fond of the young Nord in the time they'd spent together. Letting him get slaughtered by bandits was not something the Dunmer intended to do.

"I guess I'll be helping you with those bandits after all," Edwin said as the exited the castle.

"That you will. I'd put that new armor of yours on if I were you; you'll probably be needing it."


	3. Chapter 3

It was nearing sunset by the time they reached the entrance to Bleak Falls Barrow, and while the fading light had allowed them to pass by the sentries the bandits had placed in a tower along the path earlier, they had no such luck with the bandits outside the crypt's doors. While he'd objected to it at the time, Edwin was glad that he'd gone along with Marcel's suggestion that he give up his Stormcloak uniform in favor of the sturdier iron armor Jarl Balgruuf had given him. It shielded him from the arrows of the archers the Dunmer had run off in search of when the fight began, allowing him to focus on the axe-wielding brigand that had been left to him.

The Nord dispatched the man with a couple swings of his hammer, then ran after his companion. He passed the corpses of a pair of archers, one of which was missing her bow and quiver of arrows, and found Marcel trying to circle around a large Nord with a long-handled axe, staying just out of the man's striking range. Edwin let out a battle cry and charged the man, only for the other Nord take a swipe at Marcel that forced the Dunmer between him and Edwin's hammer.

"Watch where you're swinging that thing!" Marcel snapped, twisting himself out of the path of the Nord's warhammer just before it smashed through the space he'd been occupying and into the bandit.

"Sorry!" Edwin removed the hammer from what was left of the bandit's head. At the very least, he wasn't half bad at swinging a warhammer. He just needed to learn how to time said swings a bit better… Which was always the part of his training where his father had given up on him out of frustration. At least Marcel was quick on his feet.

"Gods, didn't your father bother to teach you anything about fighting?" Most of the venom had left the Dunmer's voice, but he was still warily eyeing Edwin's hammer.

"Of course he did!" Edwin replied, more harshly than he'd intended to. It wasn't as though he needed to defend his father, especially to a gray-skin of all things, but he found himself doing it none the less. "He just wasn't around very often, so he couldn't spend much time on it."

When the Dunmer made no reply, he found himself continuing, "I tried to join the Stormcloaks, but I couldn't make it through the first few days of training. They said there was no place among them for me until I learned to hit the enemy more often than my allies. They only kept me on as a cook because of who my father is…"

"I'm sorry," Marcel said, placing a hand on the Nord's shoulder.

Edwin had been expecting to be insulted or told to stop complaining like a little girl, not sympathy, of all things. For a moment, he was frozen, unsure how to react. Then he came to his senses, realized that he would never be respected as an equal, as a man, by his countrymen if he allowed himself to show such weakness, especially in front of an elf, and pulled away.

"Don't be," the Nord said, forcing his face into a scowl in an effort to appear stronger than he felt. "Let's just get that Dragonstone."

"All right," the Dunmer replied, leading the way through the large, elaborately carved door that served as the crypt's entrance.

The door opened into a large chamber. At first, it seemed as though Edwin and Marcel were its only inhabitants, but once the door had shut and sealed out the sound of the wind blowing outside the Nord could hear the echoes of a pair of voices from somewhere on the other side of the chamber. Edwin readied his warhammer and prepared to let out another war cry, only for it to become a muffled grunt instead when Marcel clapped a hand over his mouth.

He grabbed the Dunmer's wrist and forced his hand away from his face, whirling around to face his companion as he asked, "What in Talos' name did you do that for?"

"Because I'd rather not go charging blindly toward an enemy I know nothing about, if it's all the same to you," Marcel replied. "If you can refrain from crushing anyone's skull for another few minutes, I'd like to go have a look at what we're up against and see if we can take care of them before they know we're here."

"But that's dishonorable," Edwin protested. Only a milk drinker would skulk about in the shadows instead of facing his enemy like a man. And Edwin was done being a milk drinker. If he'd survived a dragon attack, he could survive a few bandits.

"I prefer being alive to being honorable. If you want to rush in there like an idiot and risk getting yourself killed, you can do it without my help."

"Maybe I will. If today is the day I go to Sovngarde, so be it." Edwin began to prepare himself to charge deeper into the chamber again, only to find himself held back by a hand firmly gripping the collar of his armor.

"If you'll wait just a moment, I think I have a plan we can both be happy with," Marcel sighed. "It sounds like there are only two of them and, if I can confirm that, then relying entirely on stealth won't be necessary. If you allow me to sneak closer to them, and if there really are only two bandits in here with us, I'll pick one of them off with an arrow and, once the other one goes looking for where it came from, you can charge in with your warhammer. That way you don't have to sacrifice that precious honor of yours, and I don't have to worry about getting brained every time you take a swing at someone."

"That would work, I suppose…" Edwin replied. It wasn't how he would have chosen to do things, but he had to admit that it did make sense. And, if he was being completely honest with himself, he hadn't been overly fond of the thought of taking on an entire group of bandits alone. He saw no reason he couldn't have cleared out that particular chamber by himself, but the rest of the barrow would likely have been quite a different matter.

"Thank you," Marcel said, stepping into the shadows that cloaked the edges of the chamber.

Edwin tried to watch his companion so that he knew when to venture deeper into the chamber himself, but it soon became clear why the Dunmer was fond of taking a stealthy approach to combat. Apart from the metal fastenings of his armor and his red hair and eyes he almost looked like a part of the wall he was pressed against. It seemed as though having gray skin did have its uses.

Once Marcel had crossed about half the chamber, he fitted an arrow to his bowstring and let it fly. While a pair of large pillars blocked Edwin's view of what had happened, the soft thud followed by a gurgle he heard were enough to convince him that the Dunmer's target would, at the very least, not be in good enough condition to put up a fight. He charged toward the noise, glad to finally be moving again, and soon found himself face to face with a bandit armed with a sword and hide shield. She held up the shield in an attempt to stop his hammer, but the hide crumpled, along with her arm, under his first strike, and the next caught her in the chest with a resounding crunch. The bandit lay twitching on the ground for a moment, desperately clinging to life, then went still, her glassy eyes staring at the ceiling as one last, choked sigh escaped her.

As Edwin looked down at her corpse, he felt an odd twinge of guilt. The kills outside had been different somehow, the lack of time between them not giving him a chance to reflect on what he'd done. Now that there were no other bandits nearby or irritated companions to apologize to, he had nothing to do but look down at a face no different than the ones he passed on the street every day.

He shook his head, banishing the unpleasant thought back to the depths of his mind it had crawled out of. She had chosen this fate when she started her life as a bandit instead of a law-abiding citizen, and if it hadn't been caused by him some other adventurer would have done it sooner or later. Besides, she'd have done the same to him in a heartbeat if he'd given her a chance. A quick look around revealed the corpse of her former comrade slumped against a pillar, an arrow through his throat, and Marcel, having left his place among the shadows, picking the lock on a chest near their campfire.

After rummaging through its contents and pocketing a few items, Marcel frowned and closed the lid. "Haven't seen anything connecting these bandits to the ones I ran into near the border yet," he muttered. "At least they have a few potions and gems."

"Are we ready to get moving, then?" Edwin asked. He didn't want to be around the corpses any longer than he needed to be.

"I am if you are. Let's just hope the rest of them are as easy to clear out as these two were."

The next several chambers were much the same as the first, though Edwin was grateful that the narrow, winding hallways of the barrow made the rest of the bandits impossible to sneak up on. It seemed as though they were beginning to make some real progress through the barrow when, instead of a chamber all but identical to the others they'd passed through, they came upon a room covered in spider webs. Inside it they found a Dunmer trapped in one of said webs, but before either could get to him an enormous spider dropped down from the ceiling.

"How did that thing find enough food in here to get so big?" Marcel breathlessly asked as it rapidly crossed the distance between them. The Dunmer made a nearly successful attempt at plunging his sword into its eyes, but was forced to roll out of its way instead when it tried to take a bite out of his head.

After that, Marcel stuck with firing arrows into its more fleshy parts while Edwin handled the close-quarters combat. It made sense, really. Edwin's warhammer let him hack away at the spider without coming within biting range, and his armor was probably sturdy enough to stop its fangs if it did manage to get a bite in. It also made it possible for the Nord to focus entirely on the spider, instead of trying to find a way to swing his hammer without hitting someone right next to him.

Once the spider lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, dead, they approached the Dunmer it had been holding captive.

"You did it. You killed it. Now cut me down before anything else shows up," he said, struggling in vain to free himself.

"Do you know where the claw is?" Edwin asked.

"Yes, the claw. I know how it works. The claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories! I know how they all fit together!"

"What are you talking about? Did that thing's poison go to your head?" Marcel asked, keeping Edwin between the other Dunmer and himself. Why his companion was so wary of an elf securely wrapped in several layers of webbing was beyond the Nord.

"Help me down, and I'll show you. You won't believe the power the Nords have hidden here."

"I don't think we have much choice," Edwin said. "Would you mind cutting him down, Marcel?"

"All right," Marcel replied, cutting the other Dunmer free of the web. "Now give us the claw, and show us what it does. If you don't cross us, you can go free once we're done here. Try anything funny, and you end up like that spider."

"Sounds fair to me," the bandit replied, fiddling with something by his hip.

Edwin didn't realize what was happening until Marcel was on the ground with a dagger in his thigh and the bandit was running deeper into the barrow as fast as his legs would carry him.

"Are you all right?" the Nord asked, dropping to his knees beside his fallen companion. He had no idea what he'd do if Marcel was seriously hurt, but he'd figure something out if that was what had happened. The thought of losing Marcel scared him more than it had any right to, even if he was just some gray-skin.

"I'm fine. I don't think he hit any arteries," the Dunmer replied, wincing as he tried and failed to get a good enough hold on the dagger to pull it out. "Should have seen that coming, though…"

"Let me help you with that," Edwin said, yanking the blade out of him in one smooth motion before he had a chance to respond. He became worried when, upon seeing the dagger, Marcel started laughing, but couldn't find any wounds on the elf apart from the one he'd just removed the blade from.

"Looks like he was one of the bandits I'm looking for after all," the Dunmer said, his laughter fading to a small smile. "He was even nice enough to give my dagger back to me. I'll have to return the favor when we catch up to him…"

After downing a healing potion, Marcel was on his feet again, his newly recovered dagger securely fastened to his belt. They found the bandit's corpse in a large chamber not far from the one they'd fought the spider in. He was lying face down in a pool of blood, and his corpse was covered in several deep lacerations, but his attacker seemed to have vanished. The only things in the room with them were a few draugr in the stone coffins carved out of the walls. Or at least, it appeared as though the draugr were the fully-dead variety until one sat up in its alcove in the wall and shambled toward them, sword drawn. It was easy enough to kill (again), though the resulting noise woke up two of its companions, neither of whom was any tougher than the first.

"What in Oblivion were those things?" Marcel asked, leaning against a pillar as he warily nudged a fallen draugr with his foot. The Dunmer seemed to be holding up well enough, but it was obvious that his leg was bothering him.

"Draugr. They were servants of dragons in life, so they were cursed to remain in this state of unrest in death."

"I just wish they hadn't decided our bandit friend needed to join them. I was hoping he could tell me where the rest of the ones who robbed me went." Marcel sighed. "Though I suppose if I had to pick just one thing to get back, the dagger would've been it."

The blade hadn't looked like anything special to Edwin, but he didn't see any need to point that out. He was sure the Dunmer had some reason the dagger was important to him.

A quick search of the bandit's belongings revealed the golden claw they were looking for, as well as a tattered journal. The last entry in it said something about a solution being in the palm of Edwin's hands if he had the claw, but apart from that there was nothing of use.

The rest of the barrow was filled with more draugr, most of whom were already awake and wandering around, and a few traps. After what felt like hours of walking down a seemingly endless series of near-identical hallways and chambers, they arrived in a long, wide hallway with elaborate carvings on all of its walls. At its end was a large stone door divided into three rings, each displaying the image of a different animal.

A quick examination of the claw revealed three animal symbols similar to those on the door, and after a bit of experimenting it became clear that the rings on the door could be rotated to match those on the claw. Once that was done, and the claw was fitted into the small holes at the door's center, it receded into the floor and revealed the largest chamber they'd come across so far.

It was largely empty until they reached the other side of it, where they found a large chest, a closed sarcophagus, and a wall covered in strange carvings. The wall seemed to be calling to Edwin somehow, and he found himself oddly uninterested in anything but being near it. As he drew closer, streams of light began to flow out of one of the carvings and wrap around him, until all he could see was light dancing around him. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the strange feeling stopped, and his vision returned to normal as something clattered across the floor and came to rest near his foot.

He turned around to find that the object was a sword, and a glance across the chamber revealed Marcel trying to fend off a draugr with only his dagger. The Dunmer seemed to be holding his own, but the draugr was able to use its greatsword to keep him well out of striking distance, and the Nord doubted he'd be able to continue dodging the draugr's strikes forever.

At that moment, Edwin decided that it was better to risk harming Marcel by attacking the draugr than to sit idly by and hope for a miracle and rushed to his companion's aid. The draugr was too focused on its current target to notice or care that he was rushing toward it, and the Nord successfully reduced it to a crumpled heap on the ground with a single swing of his hammer.

"Thanks," the Dunmer said, returning to the strange wall and reclaiming his sword.

"You're welcome," Edwin replied. It didn't fit the situation as well as he would have liked it to, but it still got the point across well enough.

"…You really aren't half bad with that thing, you know."

"Really?" the Nord asked, caught off guard by Marcel's drastic change of opinion on his fighting skill. Then again, he supposed his opinion of someone would change, too, if they went from nearly killing him to saving his life in a matter of hours.

"Really. You could be a great warrior if you found someone to train you."

"Thank you."

"There's nothing to thank me for; I'm just telling you the truth. If your father was too blind to see that, that's his problem."

Edwin had no idea what to say to that, simply nodding in response, but he couldn't stop a smile from spreading across his face as he searched through the large chest near the sarcophagus the draugr had emerged from. He'd never been given that kind of praise before, and for the first time in his life he actually felt as though he really could make a real warrior of himself. It was definitely something he hoped he'd feel again, even if it had come from a Dunmer instead of one of his countrymen.

He found the Dragonstone in the chest, just as he'd hoped, and once he'd divided the rest of the chest's contents between him and Marcel, they made their way out of the barrow and into Skyrim's night air.

"So, what was so interesting about that wall back there?" the Dunmer asked once they'd found a place to make camp for the night.

"What do you mean?" Edwin asked. He couldn't have been distracted by it for more than a few seconds...

"It must have been something special if you thought it was more important that a sarcophagus flying open and a draugr chasing me across the room."

"I don't know," the Nord replied, sheepishly looking down at his feet. He didn't want to know what Marcel must have been thinking about him during that time. "There were streams of light everywhere, and the next thing I knew you were disarmed and fighting that draugr."

"That's strange… Maybe you just blacked out for a moment. It was fairly late, and this hasn't been a particularly easy day for either of us."

"You're probably right," Edwin said. At the very least, it made a lot more sense than a wall somehow controlling him. That sort of thing only happened in songs and legends, and he wasn't the sort of person who'd be in either of those.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't plan for this quest to take up a whole chapter, but it just wouldn't stop growing... Anyway, thank you to everyone who commented/bookmarked/left kudos last time, you guys are awesome! As always, any comments and/or kudos are greatly appreciated, should you feel inclined to leave them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, and welcome to chapter four! For those of you who haven't read my Oblivion fic, "The Gods Must Be Crazy", my OC really did manage to get himself pregnant due to accidentally changing gender as a result of uncontrolled Daedric magic after completing the Shivering Isles questline and not bothering to consider whether he should look into some form of birth control. It makes sense in context. Sort of. Maybe.

As he watched the dragon's flesh dissolve into ribbons of light and flow into Edwin's body, and the reverent way the remaining Whiterun guards gathered around him as he created what appeared to be an extremely powerful gust of wind using only his voice, Marcel began to wonder if he had gotten himself involved in something he shouldn't have. He had been present when the first two dragons anyone had seen in hundreds of years appeared, both of which seemed to have been drawn to the Nord somehow, and now Edwin was absorbing their souls and getting strange powers from them. If his mother's perspective on earth-shattering events was anything to go by, it was probably in his best interests to get as far from Skyrim as possible before things went too sharply downhill. Then again, if he was basing his assumptions about the world on what his mother said, if whatever was happening with these dragons was anything like the Oblivion Crisis was, it was probably too late to get out of it, anyway.

The Dunmer's train of thought was abruptly derailed when a tap on his shoulder brought him back to his present situation. Most of the guards had dispersed and were making their way back to Whiterun, and Edwin was looking at him as though he'd tried to get his attention more than once already.

"Are you all right?" The Nord asked. "You haven't said anything."

"…Is that a bad thing?" Marcel was well aware that Edwin's father probably hadn't been particularly supportive of him, but he had no idea what he could say to the boy that the guards hadn't already. It really wasn't his place to try and act like a parent to Edwin, anyway. He was much too gray. And not nearly good enough with emotions or taking care of anyone other than himself.

"Well, no… But you seem upset. Is your leg still bothering you?"

"No, it's-" Marcel's sentence ended in a pained hiss when he shifted too much weight onto the leg he'd been stabbed in back at Bleak Falls Barrow. He'd planned to visit a healer once he and Edwin collected the reward for the Dragonstone, but the Jarl had sent them to fight off a dragon immediately afterwards because they had more 'experience' with them than anyone else. How well seeing one and hiding in a tower until it went away functioned as experience was certainly up for debate, though the fact that he and the Nord were still standing after most of the guards that had come with them were dead seemed to lend some credibility to the Jarl's theory. "All right, it is. Help me get to a healer?"

"Of course." Once they'd convinced one of the healers in Whiterun's temple to patch Marcel up, the Nord said, "I'm going to report back to the Jarl. If he gives my any gold, I promise I'll split it with you."

"I know you will," Marcel replied. And with that, he was left alone to get himself patched up.

As luck would have it, he'd managed to get himself an infection in the wound, which required a rather painful cleansing before the healer could actually focus on getting it shut. The Dunmer had almost managed to block out the pain when the world shook for a moment, and the healer that was tending to him was knocked off balance and stopped herself from falling with the same hand she'd been cleaning his wound with. It was going to be a long night…

It had been his own damn fault for underestimating that bandit and going after a whole camp of them without a good supply of healing potions, though. He'd pulled similar tricks himself often enough; he had no excuse for not recognizing it sooner. He was just lucky the bandit hadn't landed a killing blow on him instead. At least he'd gotten a good idea of what it felt like when he stabbed anyone else with his dagger out of the experience; damage health enchantments hurt. Whether it had really belonged to his father or not, his mother had given him quite an effective, if melodramatically named, blade when he gave Marcel his Blade of Woe.

Once his wound was cleaned, a simple healing spell was enough to get it closed, and the pain he'd been feeling gradually subsided. The healer refused his offer of payment, on the grounds that he'd helped save the city from a dragon, and he left the temple to find himself standing face to face with an extremely happy-looking Edwin. Apparently something good had happened; it was the first time he'd seen the boy smile.

"So, how did it go?" the Dunmer asked.

"Everyone thinks I'm Dragonborn… I guess it has to be true; I can't think of anything else that would explain what just happened. If it's true, I'd be the first one in hundreds of years."

"Good for you, then." Yep, he was in over his head with this.

"…You're sure nothing's wrong?" Edwin's formerly happy expression rapidly faded into a quizzical, almost hurt one.

Marcel sighed. "You haven't done anything wrong. It's just that, based on my own personal experience, these 'chosen one' things don't tend to end overly well…"

"What do you mean?"

And now for the explanation that usually got him labeled as crazy, a liar, or, if he was particularly lucky, both at once. "I was… acquainted with the Champion of Cyrodiil."

"Really? How?" Edwin's tone sounded more curious than skeptical, which was certainly a good sign.

"He raised me." Accepting of his story as the Nord seemed to be, the Dunmer figured it was probably best if he stuck with what his mother had told people. If anything, he wouldn't have been surprised if he really had been adopted. It was certainly easier to believe than his mother getting himself made a Daedric Prince and turning himself into a woman long enough to have a child.

"So, he was your father?"

"Yes." That worked, too.

"If you'd rather not go with me, then, I understand…"

"Where would we be going?" Much as Marcel wanted to get himself out of whatever was going on, it was obvious that Edwin had grown somewhat attached to him over the past few days, and he didn't want to make life any more difficult for the Nord than it was likely to get. And, if he was being honest with himself, he may have grown a bit attached to Edwin, as well. Stubborn and irritating as the Nord could be, Marcel had to admire the boy's determination.

"Ivarstead. We can walk there after taking a carriage to Windhelm."

"I guess we're going to Windhelm, then." He was probably going to regret those words before the end of whatever Edwin had gotten them involved in, but that was future Marcel's problem.

"Really?"

"Yeah." Staying in Skyrim for a little bit longer wouldn't kill him. He hoped.

The carriage ride was well worth the twenty septims it cost him, especially considering that it allowed him to sleep almost the entire way there. It was nice to have money again; Lucan Valerius had paid them well for bringing his claw back, and bought all the valuables they'd taken from the bandits to boot.

"So, why are we here?" Marcel asked as they walked through the city's gates.

"I have to talk to Jarl Ulfric," Edwin replied.

"What happened to going to Ivarstead right away?"

"We are going to Ivarstead. I just have to let Jarl Ulfric know what's happening first. When he learns that I'm Dragonborn, he'll have to make me a proper Stormcloak. It's what my father would want; I can finally make him proud and be worthy of his name."

"So that's what this is about…"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Edwin's expression darkened, and while the Dunmer was well aware that he was hitting a nerve he just couldn't bring himself to stop. There were more important things going on than Edwin's clearly less than ideal relationship with his father.

"It means that you are putting what you are supposed to be doing as the Dragonborn aside in favor of trying to win the favor of a few rebels who wanted nothing to do with you before now."

"I see no reason I can't be Dragonborn and a Stormcloak."

"Why is this so important to you? The rebellion isn't going anywhere fast."

"It's not about how long this war will last; it's about honor. I was shamed in front of my father and Jarl Ulfric when I couldn't even get myself trained to be a Stormcloak. I have a chance to make up for that now, to stop being an embarrassment to my family, if I can join the rebellion now and show that I'm just as good a warrior as anyone else," Edwin said, his voice rising with each word. "A gray-skin like you would never understand. You have no honor; you even choose to fight like a coward!"

The Nord's words stung more than Marcel cared to admit. It wasn't what Edwin had said - he had no qualms about admitting that he tried not to directly confront anyone he wasn't absolutely sure he could defeat; it was how he'd kept himself alive for so long – but the way he had said it, and the fact that after all they'd been through the Dunmer was still just some 'gray-skin' to the Nord cut him as well as any blade. "Gods, Edwin. Ulfric didn't care about you before now; why are you so attached to him?"

"Things will be different now…" There was just the slightest hint of hesitation in Edwin's eyes, as though, much as he wanted to, he couldn't quite convince himself that things would go as he planned. Even so, unlikely as success was, Marcel wasn't going to let the opportunity pass him by.

"Only because you're Dragonborn. If you weren't, you'd just end up as a cook again. If you ask me, he doesn't deserve you."

"What?" Any doubt that the Nord might have had was gone, replaced with nothing but cold determination.

"You shouldn't be offering help to someone who was perfectly willing to leave you to die a few days ago." Marcel knew that protesting further was futile at that point, but he'd come too far to stop now.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to. It was utter chaos when the dragon attacked; anyone could have left someone behind by mistake. Someone would have looked for me once they realized I was missing."

"Really? All right, then. Tell me, which one of your Stormcloak friends dragged you to safety back there?"

Edwin's only reply was silence. They both stood there a moment, each intently studying the other for something, anything that showed he was willing to back down and finding nothing. Finally, when it was clear that neither party was willing to admit defeat, Edwin said, "I suppose this is where we part ways."

"That's probably for the best," Marcel sighed. It seemed a shame to have come so far against his better judgment only to quit just as things started to get interesting, but maybe it was for the best. The city seemed to have a fairly large dock; he was sure he'd be able to find at least one ship willing to take him back to Cyrodiil. "Good luck with your Dragonborn business, and I hope you find what you're looking for in the Stormcloaks."

And with that, Edwin was gone, leaving Marcel to wander the city streets in search of a gate that led him to the docks. After a few minutes, it was clear that he had become horribly lost, and he decided to ask someone for directions. Even if it did get him insulted, it was better than staying out in such unreasonably cold weather for any longer than he absolutely had to. As he approached a Dunmer woman accompanied by a Nord child, however, he couldn't help but hear them discuss the boy, Aventus Aretino, living in the house they were standing next to, and the fact that he was attempting to summon the Dark Brotherhood.

The Dunmer half-dragged the boy away from the house before Marcel could attempt to address either of them, and he found himself feeling curious about what was really going on in that house. It seemed odd that a child would have reason to want someone murdered, and even stranger that he would want it badly enough to put in the time and effort that would be required to actually arrange for someone to carry out the deed. Somehow, he found himself fitting a lockpick into the house's door and slipping inside, just to have a look. Even if he was discovered, he could just (truthfully) say he'd gotten lost and hope that the boy would tell him how to get where he wanted to go. He'd go back to behaving rationally once the day was over.

As he climbed the stairs, he heard a voice chanting "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear.", and he turned a corner to find a small boy stabbing a heart encased by a complete human skeleton. It was clearly well past time for someone to intervene before the guards were called and Aventus found himself in prison.

"Are you all right?" Marcel asked, lightly resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. If Aventus reacted badly, he was fairly certain he could get it out of the way before he lost any fingers.

"It worked! I knew you'd come, I just knew it! I did the Black Sacrament, over and over. With the body and the... the things. And then you came! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood."

Well, this certainly wasn't going the way he'd intended it to… "I'm sorry, but I'm not who you think I am. You do realize that-"

"Of course you are! I prayed, and you came, and now you'll accept my contract," Aventus replied, clearly unwilling to accept 'no' as an answer.

Seeing as he had nothing better to do, Marcel supposed there was no harm in hearing the boy out. At the very least, it would give him more to work with when Aventus was finally quiet long enough for him to try and talk him out of his plan before things went too far. "What is this contract of yours, then?"

"My mother, she... she died. I... I'm all alone now. So they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften. Honorhall. The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman. They call her Grelod the Kind. But she's not kind. She's terrible. To all of us. So I ran away, and came home. And performed the Black Sacrament. Now you're here! And you can kill Grelod the Kind!"

"You're really sure that the best solution for this is to have Grelod murdered?"

"I've never been more sure about anything in my entire life. Someone like Grelod doesn't deserve to live one more day. She's a monster," Aventus replied, and Marcel was taken aback by the amount of venom in the child's voice.

The Dunmer was silent for a moment, contemplating the actions he could take. Murdering an old woman wasn't something he was particularly interested in doing, but if Grelod the Kind was truly awful enough for a child to go to such lengths to have her killed, it seemed as though accepting Aventus' contract might be for the best. If nothing else, it seemed unfair to allow Aventus to go to so much trouble without at least seeing for himself if the woman was so terrible. Then again, if he did go through with killing Grelod, he'd be stealing a kill from the Dark Brotherhood, and angering a guild of assassins was not generally considered to be a very wise course of action. The Dark Brotherhood obviously hadn't seen fit to respond to the boy's pleas so far, however, and if this had been going on long enough for Windhelm's other residents to find out about it, it seemed unlikely that they were ever going to.

In the end, he decided that paying a visit to Grelod and seeing where that took him was the best thing he could do. If Grelod was the monster that the boy had made her out to be, Marcel would have no qualms about killing her and, if she wasn't, then he saw no reason he couldn't try and work something out between the two of them.

"All right," the Dunmer replied. "I accept your contract."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter! If you'd like to leave some form of feedback on your way out, that would be great! It's always nice to know that people care about what I'm writing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long, I had a bit of a crazy holiday season this year. This chapter was initially going to cover both Marcel and Edwin, but sticking to that plan would have resulted in a freakishly long chapter and been a bit of a mess structurally. And, seeing as the second half of this will contain an appearance by a character from "The Gods Must be Crazy", it seemed like a better idea to give it its own chapter. As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

Before he made it even halfway through the walk to Riften, Marcel began to regret not hiring a carriage there, instead. While the weather in Riverwood and Whiterun had been tolerable, if a bit cold for his liking, Windhelm seemed to exist within a perpetual snowstorm. At least taking a carriage would have allowed him to wrap himself up in a blanket and try to get some sleep on the way. Still, there was little sense in turning back now, and if he planned to remain in Skyrim for an extended period of time he'd have to learn to live with the cold weather at some point.

He just hoped he'd made the right choice in deciding to accept Aventus Aretino's contract... And in leaving Edwin on his own, for that matter. Yes, the boy had been an irritating little shit at times, but he wasn't near as bad as some of his countrymen and he had seemed to be getting better before the Windhelm incident. The Nord had been committed beyond all reason to his attempt at winning his father's acceptance, though, as hopeless a task as that likely was, and the Dunmer was well aware that he had no way to effectively compete with or argue against that sentiment. He supposed that being a bastard did have its advantages, after all. Even if he had chosen to stick around after Edwin joined the Stormcloaks, there wouldn't have been much of a place for him in the boy's life, anyway. There was no way in Oblivion that Marcel was going to commit himself to that side of the civil war, and he doubted that Ulfric Stormcloak would have been a lenient enough commander to allow one of his most valuable political assets to go trekking across Skyrim with an Imperial sympathizer.

The weather grew warmer as he drew nearer to Riften, and he was mostly thawed out by the time he reached the city gates. Before he could start envisioning the hot bath and nice, warm room at the inn, preferably containing a relatively attractive man to share it with, that he hoped to find for himself after visiting the orphanage, however, he was greeted by the sight of a firmly shut gate with a pair of guards in front of it. Remembering the reception his lovely gray skin had gotten him at Whiterun, he sorely regretted both leaving Edwin behind and not at least trying to find himself a different Nord to travel with on his way out of Windhelm, and hoped that these guards were more accepting of Dunmer than the ones he'd encountered so far.

Standing around like an idiot wasn't going to get him any closer to walking into the city, though, and after sending a quick prayer to Sheogorath for either a substantial amount of luck or a brief moment of madness from at least one of the guards, the Dunmer approached the gate.

Just as he expected, a guard soon approached him. "Hold there," the man said. "Before I let you into Riften, I'll need to collect a hundred septims from you for the visitor's tax."

Well, this was new. "...You want me to pay a visitor's tax?" the Dunmer raised an eyebrow. If there wasn't a 'visitor's tax' on entering the Imperial City, Marcel saw no reason that there should be one on some ramshackle town in Skyrim, and less than no reason why visiting said town was worth a hundred septims. And he was relatively certain that the Jarl ruling over the city, if they had any sense at all, shared his point of view...

"Yes. For the privilege of entering the city. What does it matter?"

"Because this is obviously a shakedown. If you're trying to rob me, you could at least have the decency to be direct about it or make the price of your 'visitor's tax' a bit more believable."

"Whether you believe it or not, you're not getting into the city without giving us your hundred septims, elf," the guard replied. "And I'll have to charge you an extra fifty for disrespecting a city guard and disturbing the peace."

Well, that hadn't gone as planned. "I suppose I'll just have to come back another day, then, when that tax is a bit lower... That's far too expensive for a gray-skin like me," Marcel sighed. He hoped that he'd be able to talk the guard down to a more reasonable rate; he could probably find a way to scale Riften's wall once it was fully dark, and it was definitely a better option than giving the guard all the septims he was asking for, but it was still inconvenient enough for him to at least try to get into the city in a more... conventional manner.

"What are you getting at?" While it was impossible to know for sure with that helmet of his, judging by the way the guard's posture had shifted from calmly leaning against a wall to standing upright and alert, he seemed to be growing less comfortable with the way their conversation was progressing. Good.

"Maybe I'll stop by the castle, see what your Jarl thinks is a fair price for getting into the city. After all, I'm sure they'd like it if visitors had more money to spend once they make it through the gate, aren't you? Especially in times like these... It seems to me that with these dragons flying about and making the roads so dangerous, most Jarls would be trying to get as many travelers as possible to bring coin into their cities, not turning them away because they can't afford a visitor's tax..."

"All right, keep your voice down... You want everyone to hear you?" the guard grumbled. "I'll let you in, just let me open the gate."

"I knew you were a reasonable man," the Dunmer said, pausing once he was through the gate to add, "In the future, I'd consider lowering that tax of yours. If you'd tried to charge me ten or twenty septims, I might have believed you." And with that, he set about finding his way to the orphanage.

He was directed to a rather sad-looking building on the other side of the city by an uncharacteristically pleasant Dunmer by the name of Brand-Shei he passed on his way through Riften's market. The all too common abrasive personalities he encountered in his fellow Dunmer generally kept him from taking much of an interest in them, but he'd have to seriously consider stopping by Brand-Shei's stall again after paying a visit to the orphanage, even if all he managed to get out of it was an explanation of the elf's name. Granted, Marcel was hardly one to comment on someone having an unusual name for a Dunmer, but that didn't make it any less intriguing. Getting himself to that orphanage had to come first, though. The light was fading fast, and breaking into a building filled with orphaned children for the purpose of deciding whether or not he wanted to murder their caretaker just wouldn't have felt right.

Judging by the state of its exterior, it seemed as though Aventus may have been accurate in his description of Honorhall Orphanage. Its faded, weathered walls had certainly seen better days, as had the rusted metal sign perched above its door. When he stepped inside, the interior didn't look much better and, if he didn't know better, he could have sworn that it was actually colder than the air outside had been. The room he found himself standing in, furnished only by a large table that looked as though it would give splinters to anyone who so much as stood too close to it was empty, as were the room that appeared to contain multiple sets of shackles, of all things that opened out of its rear wall, and a chill ran down his spine as he approached the open space leading into the next room.

"Those who shirk their duties will get an extra beating. Do I make myself clear?" a shrill voice called out as the Dunmer entered the room.

Inside, he found an old woman surrounded by a small group of children, all of which replied with a soul-crushingly resigned, "Yes, Grelod."

"And one more thing! I will hear no more talk of adoptions! None of you riff-raff is getting adopted. Ever! Nobody needs you, nobody wants you. That, my darlings, is why you're here. Why you will always be here, until the day you come of age and get thrown into that wide, horrible world. Now, what do you all say?" Grelod said, making Aventus' description of her seem like more of an understatement with each word. No one seemed to have noticed him yet, so Marcel stepped back into the dining room, tucking himself out of sight behind the doorway as he listened to the end of the, for lack of a better word, 'conversation'.

"We love you, Grelod. Thank you for your kindness," the chorus of children answered.

"That's better. Now scurry off, my little guttersnipes."

It was then that the Dunmer decided that the best thing he could do in his present situation was to fulfill the contract he'd accepted from Aventus Aretino. A rabid bear would have been better suited to caring for children than Grelod the Kind, and less in need of being put down, to boot. He tore a sleeve off a shirt he'd been carrying in his pack and tied it around the lower half of his face, hoping that it would keep any of the children from describing him well enough for him to be identified by any guards, checked that his sword and dagger were securely fastened at his side and loose in its sheath in case he had to fight his way out of the city, and stepped back into the room.

"This is an orphanage, not an inn. Begone from here," Grelod snapped when she caught sight of him.

"Aventus Aretino says hello," Marcel replied, drawing his bow and fitting an arrow to its string.

"What? Why how dare you! I will not be intimidated in my own orphanage! Get out! Get out this instant!"

"I will. Gladly." The Dunmer let the arrow fly, watched as it firmly lodged itself in Grelod's neck and she fell to the floor, dying, as the children that had been under her care let out a cheer, and proceeded to make his way out of the orphanage, just as she'd demanded.

As he opened the door, he heard a girl's voice say, "Kill one person, and you can solve so many problems. I wonder at the possibilities..." before he stepped out into Riften. He felt a twinge of guilt, hoping that he hadn't done any lasting damage to the children by killing Grelod in front of them. His only previous experiences with assassinations had been Thalmor commanders, and the well-being of the soldiers around them wasn't generally something he was concerned about; if anything, traumatizing them in the process generally made said assassination more of a success. He'd just have to be more careful next time. If there was a next time, which he certainly wasn't planning on.

He doubted that the Dark Brotherhood would get particularly upset at losing one contract, but if he made a habit of this sort of thing then there was probably a good chance of him ending up on the business end of an arrow. And, considering that he'd already irrevocably gotten on the wrong side of one faction in Tamriel, he didn't need to add another to that list. The last thing he needed were actual assassins coming after him. Thalmor Justiciars were many things, but neither subtle nor stealthy were among them. If they were, he doubted he'd have managed to live so long. Not that he was complaining, of course.

It seemed unlikely that he would be caught and made to answer for his crime, if it could rightly be called that, but he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks, especially considering that his previous interactions with Riften's guards hadn't exactly been friendly. He kept to the shadows as he headed toward the city's gate, casting a wistful look at the marketplace and inn as he passed them. It seemed as though the only recent things he'd set out to do that ended in success involved killing someone; he just hoped that the trend wouldn't continue for too much longer.

Fortunately, there were different guards on duty as he left the city than when he'd entered it, and the Dunmer was able to complete his escape without attracting undue attention to himself. The carriage driver he approached, however, was the same one he'd passed on his way into the city, and the man furrowed his brow in suspicion as he approached.

"I need a ride to Windhelm," Marcel said, hoping that the man's desire for gold would keep him from asking any questions.

"Need to get out of Riften in a hurry, do we?" the carriage driver asked, staring intently at him.

"Yes..." Marcel shifted uncomfortably under the man's gaze, trying in vain to read his stoic expression.

"You got some girl pregnant and got yourself into trouble with her parents, didn't you?"

It certainly wasn't the excuse Marcel would have chosen, but he supposed it would suit his needs well enough. "Yes. Yes I did."

The man's expression softened, and he patted the seat of the carriage. "Climb on, then. I'll get you to Windhelm in no time at all."

Marcel didn't need to be told twice. As the carriage rattled over the bumpy road away from Riften, he leaned back until he was lying down on its wooden seat, quite content in the knowledge that, at least for the time being, he had gotten away with murder.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the hopes that it will help this chapter make marginally more sense, my Oblivion character was originally created for the sole purpose of looking ridiculous and I made no changes to his appearance when I started writing "The Gods Must be Crazy", partially due to my having no idea that it would end up as popular as it did over on fanfiction.net, which is the best explanation I can give for why he looks the way he does. And he's Sheogorath, so it's not entirely out of place. I have taken some liberties with Skyrim's Sheogorath and his Daedric quest, mostly in combining his personality with my Oblivion character's, as well as having him get to Pelagius' mind by walking there as opposed to teleporting himself there from the Shivering Isles. I decided to use him here because Edwin needed someone to interact with for the time being and, seeing as my Oblivion character will make an appearance or two later on in the story, I thought it made more sense to use him than an NPC who would never be seen or heard from again. As always, I would greatly appreciate any and all feedback that anyone may have for this chapter. I'm always trying to improve my writing, and knowing what I'm doing right and wrong is extremely helpful for that.

For what wasn't the first time since he'd left Windhelm, Edwin regretted his decision to part ways with Marcel in favor of joining the Stormcloaks. In all honesty, he'd regretted it as soon as he'd done it, but instead of going back and trying to fix things he'd stubbornly pressed on toward the Palace of the Kings like a fool. When he passed by a pair of Nords threatening a Dunmer woman and remembered how his fellow Stormcloaks had expressed similar sentiments toward anyone who wasn't a Nord, he realized that he just couldn't go through with his plan. It wasn't that he disagreed with them, or even thought any less of them for it, but treating Dunmer-or anyone, really-badly based on race alone just didn't sit right with him now that he'd gotten to know one, nor did willingly joining up with a faction whose members supported, if not encouraged doing so. The other Stormcloaks had never liked him much, anyway.

...And, much as he hated to admit it, Marcel may have had a point in questioning why he was so eager to join up with the same people who'd left him to die back at Helgen. Even if the bastard was an Imperial sympathizer who'd managed to disappear in the time it took him to walk halfway across the city. Edwin had tried to find him, but the other Dunmer in the city hadn't been willing to so much as speak with him, let alone tell him to find his companion, and none of the Nords he came across had paid enough attention to any Dunmer in the city to be of help. In the end, he'd resigned himself to making the journey to Ivarstead alone; if what little he knew about Marcel was anything to go by, he was probably a difficult man to track down if he didn't want to be found.

It had been growing dark by the time he reached the settlement, but he decided to make the journey to High Hrothgar instead of waiting until morning nonetheless. His journey was uneventful until he encountered a frost troll near the top of the Throat of the World, which, after all that ended up standing between him and a savage mauling was a lucky Shout that succeeded in sending the troll stumbling off a cliff, made it clear that he really should have found himself another traveling companion before leaving Windhelm. There had been no sense in dwelling on past mistakes he had no way of correcting at that particular moment, however, and the Nord completed his journey without further incident.

Receiving confirmation that he was, in fact, Dragonborn, gave Edwin a good deal more confidence in his ability to do whatever he needed to in order to stop any more dragons he came across, and he came away from his visit with the Greybeards with knowledge of new Shouts, as well. They had refused to teach him any more until he retrieved the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller from a ruin near Morthal, though, so after spending the rest of the night at their monastery he began what he had believed would be a long walk across Skyrim.

His plans changed when he passed through Ivarstead on his way down from High Hrothgar, however, and a dappled grey horse tethered outside the inn took an interest in him. When the innkeeper went outside to find the animal nuzzling at Edwin's pack, the man had simply given it to him, saying that he'd accepted the horse as payment for a room but had been unable to find another owner for him and lacked the facilities to care for him properly. Edwin had no idea what to name the horse, but he supposed that he'd think of something sooner or later, once he didn't have more pressing matters to attend to.

A few hours later, Edwin and his new mount were nearing their destination, and while his horse was perfectly good company on the road, the young Nord was becoming increasingly aware of the fact that he still hadn't found himself another traveling companion. He doubted that Ustengrav would be much worse than Bleak Falls Barrow, and his skill in battle had no doubt improved since he had fought his first few bandits with Marcel, but he still wasn't entirely certain that he was prepared to go into one on his own. Just as he was considering making a trip to the nearest city in search of a hireling, however, he caught sight of what appeared to be a bandit camp.

As he drew closer to the camp, he realized that its only living occupant was an odd-looking Dunmer sunning himself on top of one of the tents, the fresh corpses of the bandits the camp had previously belonged to strewn across the ground around him. He was dressed in some strange type of shirt that was red on its left side and purple on its right and a darker purple pair of pants that contrasted sharply with his blue skin and, unless Edwin was hallucinating, bright pink hair. In all honesty, the Nord wasn't entirely sure that he was a Dunmer at all until he stirred and opened his red eyes that, seeing as he was too small and brightly colored for a Dremora and too fond of the sun to be a vampire, wouldn't have been present in any other race. Bizarre as his appearance was, however, Edwin couldn't help but think that he looked familiar...

"Hello there," the Dunmer drawled in a voice that wouldn't have been out of place coming from a Nord. Edwin was beginning to wonder if the Greybeards had put something in the sweetroll he'd eaten for breakfast that morning.

"Hello..." the Nord replied. Strange as he was, the Dunmer didn't seem as though he meant to do Edwin any harm, and if he'd managed to kill a small group of bandits on his own then he probably wasn't a bad person to have as an ally. At the very least, he saw no harm in being polite and finding out what, if anything, the Dunmer wanted from him.

"So, you're the Dragonborn..." the Dunmer stretched and drew himself into a sitting position. "It took you long enough to get here."

"Yes... How did you know that?"

"I have connections. Akatosh is a friend of mine."

"All right, then..." The Dunmer's appearance definitely wasn't the only odd thing about him...

"Does the Dragonborn have a name?" Edwin's strange new companion asked, as though he were the one who'd found a brightly colored, oddly dressed stranger lounging about directly in his path.

"Edwin. What's yours?"

"I'm Remy."

"Why are you here?" While it wasn't the most pleasant way to bring up the subject, Edwin's mind was spinning too much for him to care.

"I decided to take a little vacation in Solitude, and figured I'd make a stop along the way to see the poor sod the Divines picked this time around. I guess they just like their heroes young..."

"...What do you mean, 'this time around'?"

"Maybe I should have just introduced myself using my title... Or one of them, anyway," Remy sighed. "Well, too late for that now. I'm the Champion of Cyrodiil. Or at least, I was. I'm not sure if that expires or not..."

"Really?" Much as Edwin wanted to doubt the Dunmer's explanation, the more he thought about it the more it started to make an odd kind of sense. Remy did have some resemblance to Marcel, even if it was in build and face instead of coloring, and it would certainly explain why Marcel had been so vague when describing him. And his wariness in regards to getting involved with a 'chosen one', for that matter. If he hadn't been lying, anyway.

"Yep."

"...Do you know a Dunmer by the name of Marcel? He has gray skin, red hair-"

"And keeps a stupid patch of hair under his lip instead of growing a proper beard?" When Edwin nodded, he continued, "He's my son. I take it you've met him?"

Strange as it was, it seemed that Remy and Marcel had both been telling him the truth. Edwin just hoped that he made it out of whatever he was supposed to do with more of his sanity intact than Remy had. "We traveled together for a while. I'm not sure where he is now, though. We had a bit of a falling out..."

"Well, that would explain why I couldn't find him in Cyrodiil. ...While I'm here, how would you like some help with... whatever it is you're doing?"

"That would be nice," Edwin replied. It would save him the time and septims finding someone else to help him would cost, and he couldn't think of a better person to help him with his quest than the Champion of Cyrodiil. "What do you usually fight with?"

"I'm not a bad shot, and I'm pretty good with daggers, Remy said, rolling off his tent and picking a bow and dagger up off the ground beside it. "If that's all right with you."

"That should be fine." And convenient; he wouldn't have to learn to work with a companion that used different weapons than he'd grown accustomed to. "Shall we get started, then?"

"Sounds good to me. We should see if this place has a back door. It's always easier to get what you need out of these ruins if you can find the back door."

"...What?"

"There's usually a hidden exit that leads to one of the deeper chambers in a ruin like this. Sometimes it's possible to get in through those, and it makes finding thing a lot easier. They're really hard to find if you don't already know where they are, but it never hurts to try, right?"

"I think I'll just stick to using the main entrance..." Edwin replied, wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

"All right... Lead the way, Dragonborn."

Once Edwin had securely tethered his horse to a tree, he and Remy entered the ruin and, while they had little trouble disposing of the warring groups of bandits and mages that had taken up residence in Ustengrav, the Nord became aware of a serious problem before they'd made it through the first chamber.

"I thought you said you weren't a bad shot," Edwin hissed as yet another of Remy's arrows sailed past its target and bounced off a wall.

"I'm not," the Dunmer replied, finally succeeding in killing a mage that had them pinned behind a pillar. "I'm inconsistent. There's a difference. I'm just a bit out of practice at the moment."

Edwin just sighed, wondering just how many of the dead bandits outside Remy had actually killed. Still, he supposed that having an 'inconsistent' archer with him was better than none at all, and the bandits and mages were doing a fairly good job at killing themselves off, anyway.

Their journey through the ruin progressed in a similar manner until they reached a point where the mostly dead bandits and mages were replaced with draugr and skeletons, and Remy proved that he hadn't been wrong in saying that he was pretty good with his dagger. For some reason, he doubted that the Dunmer had been referring to his ability to blindly slash at skeletons until they fell apart when he'd mentioned it, though.

They made good time in progressing through Ustengrav in spite of Remy's more... interesting fighting tactics, however, and Edwin was able to learn another part of a Shout from a wall similar to the one he'd found in Bleak Falls Barrow. He hadn't been sure what it had done when he tried to use it until the Dunmer reached out and stuck his hand right through him, revealing that, for a short time, it turned him into a ghost of sorts. He wasn't sure how being unable to touch or be touched by anyone was particularly useful, but he supposed it might come in handy at some point.

They soon came to a chamber containing a narrow stone walkway with shallow pools of water on either side of it. Several stone carvings of what might have been dragons rose up out of the water as they passed, but apart from that the chamber was empty aside from some smashed urns and what appeared to be an altar of some sort composed of a stone hand holding up a... note. A note that, when he read it, revealed that someone had stolen the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller from the ruin before he could get there, and wanted to speak with him. In Riverwood.

"These quests can never be straightforward, can they?" Remy said, patting him on the back. "At least no one died, though, right?"

"I suppose so..." Edwin replied. He wasn't certain that no one dying was something to be particularly proud of, but it wasn't something to not be proud of, either... "Maybe there was a back door." It would explain how whoever had taken the horn made it through the ruin without having to fight their way through, anyway. Perhaps Remy wasn't so crazy after all...

The Dunmer shrugged. "It's possible. It doesn't really matter now, though; we've already gotten where we need to be. I'm sure you'll be able to find what you're looking for at some point. Once we get out of here, anyway."

"I hope so..." The note made the person who'd stolen the Horn sound more like they were trying to lure him into a trap than anything else, but he supposed he'd have to go along with it nonetheless.

After a bit of searching they were able to find a secret passage to a chamber near Ustengrav's entrance, proving Remy's 'back door' theory to be only partially correct, and were outside again in a matter of minutes.

"Well, this has been fun, but I have things I really need to be doing," Remy said. "My vacation isn't going to have itself, after all. Unless it does. That does sound like the sort of thing it would do..."

"...Right." In all honesty, Edwin felt as though he'd spent about as much time with the Dunmer as he could manage for one day, and he was grateful that Remy didn't plan to invite himself along for the Nord's journey to Riverwood. "Thank you for your help."

"It was no trouble. Take good care of yourself, and try not to turn into a dragon statue." Before Edwin could think of any response to that, the Dunmer had turned his back on him and began walking off into the swamp surrounding the ruin. "Goodbye! ...And if you run into Marcel again, tell him I said 'hello'."

"I will," Edwin replied, watching as Remy eventual disappeared after passing through a clump of trees. He was fairly sure that the Dunmer wasn't going in the right direction if Solitude was, in fact, his destination, but he felt that he could be relatively certain that he'd find his way there eventually. Remy didn't seem like he'd be the type to ask for (or follow) directions, anyway.

"This has been a strange day," the Nord said to his horse as he climbed onto his saddle again. "Let's see what's waiting for us in Riverwood, shall we?"

The horse snorted in response, obediently trotting toward whatever the person who'd taken the Horn had in store for them. After what Edwin had just gone through, he was prepared for just about anything.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, again! I've taken a few liberties with the Dark Brotherhood questline here, as it just didn't seem logical for Astrid to haul someone almost all the way across Skyrim when taking them somewhere closer to the sanctuary would have been more efficient and worked just as well. For those of you who read "The Gods Must Be Crazy", Marcel's natural hair color has been retroactively changed because it worked better with the plot this way. I will alter its epilogue to reflect this in the near future. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter, and will be eternally grateful to you if you would be so kind as to leave me some feedback when you're done reading it! If I know what I'm doing right, I can do more of it, and if I know what I'm doing wrong, I'll be able to improve my writing that much quicker.

Marcel awoke with a throbbing pain in his head and less than no idea where in Tamriel (or Oblivion, for that matter) he was. Normally, this wouldn't have been a particularly troubling occurrence, but the lack of an equally confused man anywhere within reach and the fact that the last thing he could remember was leaving Aventus Aretino's house after collecting the payment for his 'contract' seemed to indicate that his present location was more likely to be a prison or remote location than someone's bed (unless said bed happened to be made of stone and covered in a layer of dirt and gods knew what else which, all things considered, would probably have been more reason to worry than waking up as someone's prisoner). And that he was more likely to leave it with scrapes, bruises, and a broken bone or two than a kiss and a warm, satisfied feeling inside.

Judging by what he could see from his current vantage point of lying sprawled out on his back, he was in a stone structure of some kind which, depending on how long he'd been there, might have gone a long way in explaining why he was so damn stiff and sore when he sat up. When he saw the woman in black and red leather armor with a strip of red cloth and a hood covering most of her face, any remaining hope that this was all the result of a night of drunken shenanigans was quickly extinguished. Her armor didn't look like any Thalmor uniform he'd ever seen, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing...

"Sleep well?" the woman asked.

"Not particularly," Marcel replied, slowly running a hand up his side and frowning when he found his sword belt still buckled around his waist and his sword and dagger still in their sheaths. He wasn't sure what this woman was playing at, nor was he certain he wanted to find out. "Why am I here?"

"Does it matter? You're warm, dry... and still very much alive. That's more than can be said for old Grelod. Hmm?"

"You know about that?" He didn't think anyone had followed him out of Riften, and Grelod couldn't have been dead for more than a day... This did not bode well. He supposed that he might have been able to hit his captor with his dagger from his current position, if he could get it out of its sheath, aimed properly, and thrown before she realized what was going on, but if his attack was unsuccessful he'd be at quite a disadvantage.

"Old hag gets butchered in her own orphanage? Things like that tend to get around. Oh, but don't misunderstand. I'm not criticizing. It was a good kill. Old crone had it coming. And you saved a group of urchins, to boot," the woman replied, placing a hand on the hilt of her own dagger as though she'd sensed what he was thinking. "Ah, but there is a slight... problem. You see, that little Aretino boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. For me, and my associates. Grelod the Kind was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood contract. A kill... that you stole. A kill you must repay."

"And how do you suggest I do that?" Marcel definitely wasn't eager to try his luck against a Dark Brotherhood assassin in his current state, but if the woman wanted to be 'repaid' with his life, she wasn't going to get it without a fight. He got to his feet, wincing as felt the prickling sensation that accompanied his blood flowing back into his legs. He really wasn't in any condition to be fighting...

"Well now. Funny you should ask. If you turn around, you'll notice my guests. I've 'collected' them from... well, that's not really important. The here and now. That's what matters. You see, there's a contract out on one of them, and that person can't leave this room alive. But... which one? Go on, see if you can figure it out. Make your choice. Make your kill. I just want to observe... and admire."

Hoping that he wasn't blindly playing along with some kind of sinister plan, the Dunmer turned around. A few paces ahead of him were three other captives, all with their hands bound and black sacks tied around their heads. Killing one of them would certainly be easier than taking on their captor and, while he generally tried to avoid killing anyone who didn't have it coming, he wasn't about to pick someone else's life over his own. And, well, if one of them had managed to get a Dark Brotherhood contract taken out on them, they were probably doomed whether he struck the killing blow or not.

His choices were a relatively normal, if somewhat abrasive, woman who claimed to be a mother, a Khajiit who freely admitted that he was exactly the sort of person who'd be dragged off to a secluded location to be murdered, and a Nord sellsword who couldn't stop sobbing long enough to give him a detailed account of anything. The woman didn't seem as though she'd done anything bad enough to warrant calling in the Dark Brotherhood, and, while he hardly seemed like a good person, Marcel had a hard time believing that all of the things the Khajiit had claimed to do were true. The Nord's reluctance to say anything at all made him seem rather suspicious and, even if he did make the wrong choice in killing him, at least Marcel's other two options had been willing to admit that they might have caused someone to want them dead. One quick slice of his dagger and it was over, the man's blood flowing over the stone floor as he pitched forward, dead.

"Oh ho. The whimpering Nord, eh? Yes, yes, I can see how you'd come to that conclusion. Interesting choice," the woman's voice rang out from behind him.

Marcel sighed, turning around to face her again. This had gone on for far too long already... A few theatrics every now and again were all good and well, but there came a time when it was really best to just get to the damn point. "I take it he was the one with a contract out on him, then?"

"Oh. No, no, no. Don't you understand? Guilt, innocence, right, wrong... Irrelevant. What matters is I ordered you to kill someone, and you obeyed."

"Wonderful. Can I go now?"

"Of course. And you've repaid your debt, in full," the woman replied, stepping out of the chamber's exit. "But why stop here? I say we take our relationship to the next level." Before Marcel could spend too long trying to puzzle out exactly what context she'd meant that in, she continued, "I would like to officially extend to you an invitation to join my Family. The Dark Brotherhood."

"...Really?" Well, that was unexpected. The offer did seem to be worth considering, though. It would give him a few connections in Skyrim, which were never a bad thing to have, and might let him take a look into his family history, as well. If nothing else, it would give him a way to find out of his supposed father actually existed; if he was lucky, he might be able to confirm whether or not the man and his mother had been together at some point.

"Yes. You've shown a certain... aptitude for killing, and it's been far too long since we've brought some new blood in. What do you say?"

"Sure, why not?" Marcel wasn't likely to get a better job offer any time soon, and assassinating people definitely seemed like easier, safer work than running into ancient tombs and hoping for the best.

"Good. In the southwest reaches of Skyrim, in the Pine Forest, you'll find the entrance to our Sanctuary. It's just beneath the road, hidden from view. When questioned by the Black Door, answer with the correct passphrase: 'Silence, my brother.' Then you're in. And your new life begins. I can take you there, if you like; it's not far from here."

"That's fine by me," the Dunmer replied. Even if the woman's offer had been intended to mock him, it sounded like a much better idea than blindly stumbling through an unfamiliar forest on his own.

"Let's get going then, shall we? I'll send someone along to clean up the... mess later," the woman said, walking out of the chamber. Marcel followed close behind her, and once they were both some distance away from the stone ruin of some kind she'd dragged him to she asked, "So, what do you call yourself?"

"Marcel," he paused a moment, well aware that he wasn't likely to get any information out of it, but if his surname meant something anywhere, it had a better chance of doing so in the Dark Brotherhood than anywhere else. It wasn't as though he had anything to lose by using it, anyway. "Marcel Lachance."

Too much of the woman's face was covered for him to determine if she'd had any discernable reaction, though he could have sworn that her eyes had narrowed a bit. Then again, it could just as easily have been a reaction to something in the air or a bit of sunlight shining through the trees around them as anything related to him. "I am Astrid," she said, and the remainder of their journey passed in silence.

They soon came to a large, black door covered in carvings of skeletal figures. It wasn't exactly subtle, though Marcel supposed it was in a remote enough location that it didn't need to be. It swung smoothly open once Astrid had said the passphrase, and shut itself almost silently once they had passed through it.

"So, what happens now?" he asked, examining his new surroundings. The Black Door had opened into a narrow stairway, its walls lined with red tapestries that each had a large, black handprint in their center. It led into a dimly lit chamber that, aside from one corner that was devoted to a stone table with a large map of Skyrim spread out across it, was lined with shelves and cupboards along most of its walls.

"Well, what happens now is you start your new life in the Dark Brotherhood. You're part of the Family, after all. This, as you can see, is our Sanctuary. You won't find a safer place in all of Skyrim. So get comfortable." After rummaging through one of the many cupboards surrounding them, she pulled out a set of armor similar to her own and handed it to the Dunmer. "I'd start by getting yourself cleaned up and putting on your uniform."

Marcel looked down at himself, cringing when he saw how much dirt he'd allowed himself to accumulate. He generally tried to keep himself as clean as possible, but he hadn't been able to find a stream in Skyrim that didn't feel like it was on the verge of freezing over, and he hadn't been desperate enough to risk frostbite for a bath. "Do you have any more contracts for me?"

"At the moment, no. I'll arrange a job for you, but I need some more time. For now, go talk to Nazir-he's the Redguard in the red cloak. He may have some smaller contracts to tide you over. Be sure to introduce yourself to the rest of your new Family members, as well. They're all very eager to meet you."

"Will do," Marcel replied, making his way deeper into the Sanctuary. The next room he found contained a small pool of water fed by a waterfall that, when he placed his hand in it, was surprisingly warm. Seeing as no one else was around and he doubted he'd find a better place to wash himself, he stripped off his armor and dived in for a much-needed bath.

Once he'd scrubbed off the layer of filth he'd accumulated, he set about trying to get himself into his new set of armor. He soon discovered that it looked much more complicated than it actually was, however, and that the only real challenge it presented was the fact that it clung so tightly to his body. Apparently undergarments were against the Dark Brotherhood's dress code.

He encountered another, more serious challenge when he caught sight of his reflection, however. The Sanctuary's dim lighting made it difficult to notice, but his hair was beginning to look more pink than red. It wasn't particularly surprising; he hadn't dyed it since before he'd left Cyrodiil, but his supply of hair dye had been among the things the bandits had stolen from him after he crossed the border, leaving him with no way to remedy the situation. He hoped one of the bastards had mistaken it for food or an alchemy reagent and tried to eat it.

The Dunmer supposed he still looked normal enough, but if he let things go for much longer someone was bound to notice. And wandering Skyrim with pink hair would inevitably attract attention that he really didn't need. He'd have to find himself an alchemist as soon as possible. He was more than capable of putting something together on his own if he needed to, but working with unfamiliar ingredients always carried a risk of causing skin irritation, which limited its potential applications. That in itself wasn't overly problematic, but if he did end up getting... close to anyone, questions as to why things didn't quite match up were infinitely worse than the stares one attracted for having pink hair. It was just best not to risk it, really.

Most of his new 'family members' seemed friendly enough when he found them sharing a meal in a large dining chamber, and he'd gotten a nice bowl of stew out of his introductory social time, to boot. One of them, a vampire by the name of Babette who'd been turned while she was still a child, was even an alchemist, making it seem as though his life was finally taking a turn for the somewhat less inconvenient. She had been paying uncomfortably close attention to him, however, so it was probably better to ask her for assistance sooner rather than later.

Once the meal was over, he approached Nazir, hoping that the man had some kind of conract to offer him. He'd tucked the engraved platter Aventus Aretino had paid him with inside a satchel in the boy's house before leaving-he just hadn't felt right about taking what may have been the only thing of his mother's the boy had left-which, while he had no regrets about doing so, meant that he wouldn't be making any money any time soon unless he found more work.

"So you're the newest member of our dwindling, dysfunctional little Family," the Redguard said.

"Well, that's one way of looking at it..." Marcel replied.

"Save the niceties for now. I have no intention of getting invested in someone who may be dead tomorrow. If you're still breathing in a few weeks, I'm sure we'll be the best of friends."

"...Right. I don't suppose you have a contract for me?" Being a member of this family was clearly going to take some getting used to...

"As it turns out, there are a few lingering contracts we haven't had the chance to complete just yet. And more, dribbling in from time to time. I'll assign them to you as they become available. To be completed at your leisure."

"Sounds good to me."

"Wonderful. These aren't particularly glamorous assassinations, I'll be honest. Don't pay much, either. But they'll keep you busy. Just do them as you're able. There's no real time limit - the targets aren't going anywhere. You can start with a beggar named Narfi; he's a hapless beggar living in some ruins just outside the village of Ivarstead. Easy even for you. Kill him without causing a fuss or landing yourself in jail, and we'll see about giving you something more advanced."

"I suppose I'd better get started, then," Marcel replied. He wasn't about to complain about his assignment; it was probably his own damn fault for being so careless when he killed Grelod. Besides, easy work was easy work.

"Happy hunting," Nazir called after him as he went in search of Babette.

Marcel found the vampire mixing potions, mercifully without any other members of the Dark Brotherhood present.

"You looking to buy some potions?" she asked, turning to look at him before he had a chance to announce his presence.

"Hair dye, actually," Marcel replied, sitting down across the table from her.

"Not a natural red, are we?" Babette's lips curled into an amused smirk that looked entirely out of place on her childlike features.

"I'm afraid not," the Dunmer sighed. "I'm an unnatural pink."

"Interesting," the vampire said, looking at him the same way she had back in the dining hall. Marcel wondered how long it had been since she'd fed on anyone. "I think I might have something for you."

"Do you think you could answer a few questions for me?" Marcel asked as she searched through a small chest of items across the room.

"Three hundred," Babette replied, not even bothering to look up from the contents of the chest.

"What?"

"I'm three hundred years old, give or take a few. Vampirism tends to keep one remarkably... fresh."

"I take it that means you were working for the Dark Brotherhood around the end of the Third Era, then?"

"...Yes," this time, she looked up at him. "What does it matter?"

"It probably doesn't, unless you were acquainted with an Imperial by the name of Lucien Lachance or a pink-haired Dunmer named Remy."

Babette chuckled. "I thought you looked familiar. As it happens, I knew both of them, though not particularly well. They were both working out of Cyrodiil while they were active. Lucien passed through our Sanctuary once on a contract, though that's all I could say about him; he didn't have much interest in women my age.

"I can't say I knew Remy much better. He stayed here for a few days shortly after becoming Listener. He didn't seem to have the first idea what he was doing, but he led us as well as anyone I can remember. I do seem to remember him mentioning something about having a son and asking the same thing about Lucien you did, but that's all. Does that answer your question?" Babette seemed to have found what she was looking for, and returned to her table with a faintly red-stained pouch and slip of paper.

"Yes. Thank you."

Babette smiled and handed him the pouch and slip of paper. "That should be enough dye to keep you red for quite a while, and the recipe should be easy enough to follow if you do run out."

"How much do I owe you?" Marcel asked, tucking the dye and recipe safely into his pack.

"Consider it a welcome gift," the vampire replied. "For finally finding your way into our family. It will be nice to have someone closer to my own age to play with."

Marcel couldn't help but return her amused smirk this time. "I'm sure it will," he replied. He may not have found exactly what he was looking for, but it was a start, and he was happy to have found at least one person in his new 'family' that it didn't feel entirely strange to apply the word to.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Sorry this took so long to update; my most recent chapter took a while to write and I realized that I forgot to post the two chapters before it here, as well. Oops. So, enjoy the triple update! Hopefully I can get this back to a more regular update schedule within the next couple of weeks. Thank you to everyone who read/bookmarked/left kudos/commented last time; it's always nice to know that people are enjoying my work. As always, any and all feedback is appreciated. :)

Edwin wondered if he really did need to consider the possibility that he was having hallucinations when, as he rode into Riverwood, he caught sight of what looked like Marcel sitting on the inn's porch and focusing intently on a map, While he supposed that it wasn't entirely impossible that the Dunmer could have wandered back to Riverwood after their argument in Windhelm, he couldn't think of any reason as to why he would have wanted to. The Nord doubted that anyone in Skyrim would have blamed him for thinking that the sight was more likely to be a result of his imagination than extremely good luck. Especially considering that it had happened so soon after meeting Remy. If he could even be certain that that had actually happened at all.

He realized that something must have happened to change the Dunmer's mind about remaining in Skyrim, however, when he dismounted his horse in front of the inn and his former traveling companion looked up from his map and, after exchanging a reciprocal look of confusion with him for a moment or two, uttered a cautious, "Hello."

"...Hello," Edwin replied. Another moment of silence and confusion passed between them before he asked, "What are you doing in Riverwood?"

"I was looking for Ivarstead," the Dunmer replied.

"You're a bit off course, then."

"So I noticed," Marcel said, and returned to studying his map.

As yet another extended silence washed over them, Edwin found himself missing the way things had used to be between he and the Dunmer. Marcel was the only friend he'd made since leaving Markarth, and it had been nice to, if only for a few days, know he wasn't alone in the world. He supposed that if he wanted to get that back, however, he was going to have to make the first move himself. He sat down next to the Dunmer, leaned over the map, and said, "You came from Windhelm, right? You probably just tried to go around the Throat of the World the wrong way."

"...Yes, Windhelm. That's where I came from." Marcel let out a short, strained laugh. "I suppose that's what I get for trying to find my way around the province without a Nord, eh?"

"I guess so?" Edwin replied, wishing he knew if the Dunmer had been trying to make a joke or mock his actions at Windhelm.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

This time, Marcel broke the awkward silence. "So, how did your meeting with Ulfric go? I'll bet you're practically his second-in-command now..."

Suddenly, silence didn't seem so bad. Nor did solitude, for that matter. At least it would have saved the Nord the trouble of explaining exactly what had happened. It wasn't that he was ashamed of himself; he just didn't want Marcel thinking that he'd gone and given up on his dreams just to please him. He didn't even like the Dunmer all that much. It was just nice to have someone to talk to and fight beside. And Marcel was cheaper than hiring a sellsword. That was all there was to it. Still, he couldn't exactly lie about it... If they were going to travel together again, the truth would come out eventually, and telling the Dunmer that he had joined up with the Stormcloaks again would probably just lead to them deciding to go their separate ways again. "I... didn't meet with him."

"What do you mean? Did you have to talk to someone else, then?"

"I didn't meet with anyone. ...I'm not a Stormcloak."

"What happened?" Marcel asked, looking at him incredulously. "Don't tell me they still don't want anything to do with you..."

"I just couldn't do it, all right?" Edwin looked down at his feet, unable to look the Dunmer in the eye. Maybe this hadn't been a good idea. That kind of indecision was exactly the sort of thing that people were ridiculed for; no proper Nord had trouble sticking to his decisions, especially after defending them so passionately. Marcel probably wouldn't be willing to help him any more after the way he'd insulted him, anyway. Edwin knew he'd never forgive something like that.

"Well, I'm glad you finally came to your senses."

"...That's it?" That hadn't gone as the Nord expected, to say the least.

"I think so." The Dunmer folded his map and tucked it into his pack. "What were you expecting?"

"Well, most people would at least demand an apology..."

"Would I get one if I did?" Edwin didn't have an answer for that, but was saved from trying to think of one when Marcel put a hand on his shoulder and said, "There's nothing to forgive, Edwin. Not everyone is as prickly as you Nords are."

"So, does this mean we can travel together again? I am going to Ivarstead once I'm done here..."

"Sounds good to me," the Dunmer replied. "What do we need to do?"

"I need to meet someone at the inn; they stole a horn I was supposed to retrieve for the Greybeards."

Marcel frowned. "Well, whatever they're planning, at least you won't be going in there alone now. You really couldn't be bothered to find yourself a sellsword for this?"

"I didn't think about it. If they wanted me dead, they could have just killed me when I went to find the horn, right?"

"Not necessarily... I wouldn't put too much trust in someone who's just robbed you."

Edwin sighed. "I don't have much choice though, do I? Let's just get this over with."

"Fair enough. I'm right behind you."

The Dunmer was true to his word as they entered the inn, and the innkeeper directed them to a small room near the back of the inn after telling them that the 'attic room' did not, in fact, exist. A few minutes later, she entered the room dressed in a set of leather armor and, after closing the door behind them, turned to Marcel and said, "So you're the Dragonborn I've been hearing so much about... I suppose you would be. I think you're looking for this." She then placed the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller into the Dunmer's hand.

"We appreciate the gesture, but I'm not the Dragonborn," Marcel replied, handing the horn to Edwin. "He is."

"Oh. My apologies," the woman said, finally deciding that Edwin was worthy of her attention. "We need to talk. Follow me."

As she left the room, Edwin found himself trailing behind her, wishing he could find a way to make himself look more heroic. Or at least intimidating. He'd have settled for manly, really. Gods, why had things had to become so awkward?

Once they were all inside the innkeeper's room, she shut that door behind them and revealed a secret passageway hidden in her wardrobe.

"And I thought I was paranoid," Marcel muttered as they climbed down a staircase that led to a small room with a table in its center and fully stocked weapon racks lining nearly all of its walls.

The woman either didn't hear the Dunmer's comment or chose not to react to it, and positioned herself across the table from them before saying, "The Greybeards seem to think you're the Dragonborn. I hope they're right."

"They are. They wouldn't have trusted me to find the horn for them otherwise," Edwin said, suddenly feeling grateful toward Marcel for his lack of skepticism.

"I hope so. But you'll forgive me if I don't assume that something's true just because the Greybeards say so. I just handed you the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Does that make me Dragonborn, too?"

"I have no idea who, or what, you are," Edwin sighed. "What do you want with me?"

"My name is Delphine. I didn't go to all this trouble on a whim. I needed to make sure it wasn't a Thalmor trap. I'm not your enemy. I already gave you the horn. I'm actually trying to help you. I just need you to hear me out."

"So that's where I know you from!" Marcel interrupted, looking quite pleased with himself. "...You've aged well."

"This isn't the time or place, Marcel." Delphine shot the Dunmer a glare that would have made a dragon flinch. To his credit, Marcel appeared to be unfazed, simply shrugging his shoulders and wandering off to examine a weapon rack.

It seemed that this was only going to get more confusing before it started to make sense. Edwin asked, "Can someone please explain what's going on?"

"I'm part of a group that's been looking for you... well, someone like you, for a very long time. If you really are Dragonborn, that is. Before I tell you any more, I need to make sure I can trust you," Delphine replied. "I knew the Greybeards would send you there if they thought you were Dragonborn. They're nothing if not predictable. When you showed up here, I knew you were the one the Greybeards sent, and not some Thalmor plant."

"Why have you been looking for me?"

"I remember what most don't - that the Dragonborn is the ultimate dragonslayer. You're the only one that can kill a dragon permanently by devouring its soul. Can you do it? Can you devour a dragon's soul?" Delphine leaned forward, studying him intently.

Edwin shifted uncomfortably under her intense gaze as he replied, "Yes. That's how I first learned I was Dragonborn."

"Good. And you'll have a chance to prove it to me soon enough. Dragons aren't just coming back, they're coming back to life. They weren't gone somewhere for all these years. They were dead, killed off centuries ago by my predecessors. Now something's happening to bring them back to life. And I need you to help me stop it. I've figured out where the next one will come back to life. We're going to go there, and you're going to kill that dragon. If we succeed, I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"How do you know where the next attack will be?" From what he'd seen, dragons seemed to attack at random. Or just focused on wherever he happened to be. Though he hoped it was the former, or he'd have to start avoiding towns...

"You should know. You got the map for me. The dragonstone you got for Farengar, remember? The dragonstone was a map of ancient dragon burial sites. I've looked at which ones are now empty. The pattern is pretty clear. It seems to be spreading from the southeast, down in the Jeralls near Riften. The one at Kynesgrove is next if the pattern holds. There's an ancient dragon burial near there. If we can get there before it happens, maybe we'll learn how to stop it."

Edwin wasn't sure whether or not he was particularly interested in Delphine's help, but if she knew where the next dragon attack was going to be he supposed that going along with her plan couldn't hurt. Besides, Marcel seemed to trust her, and that was good enough for him. "Let's go kill a dragon, then."

"Great. I'll meet you at Kynesgrove. Don't waste time getting there." And with that, she went on her way, leaving Edwin and Marcel alone in her secret room.

"Aren't we going to follow her?" Edwin asked when the Dunmer simply continued examining Delphine's weapon racks.

"In a moment," Marcel replied, continuing his slow walk around the room until he stopped in front of one that held an elaborately carved bow. After examining it on the wall for a moment or two, the Dunmer reached up and removed it from the rack, nodding to himself as he experimentally tugged at its string.

"What are you doing?" Edwin stared at the Dunmer incredulously, wondering if he was about to witness a robbery.

Marcel sighed. "Delphine didn't take this with her, so she obviously isn't using it, and I need a nicer bow. The one I have was barely able to pierce the wings of the last dragon we fought, and we don't have a small army of guards to back us up with this one. I'm sure Delphine would prefer that I make this thing, and myself, useful instead of leaving it here to gather dust. If my taking it bothers her, I promise I'll give it back."

"Well, I suppose it's all right, then..." The Nord couldn't say he was comfortable with standing by and letting his friend take someone else's things, but he couldn't exactly argue with the Dunmer, either. They'd never manage to kill a dragon if they couldn't get it out of the sky, and if Marcel said he needed a better bow for that, then Edwin believed him. "Let's just go."

While only having a single horse between them meant that they would have to walk to Kynesgrove, they were able to make better time than they otherwise would have due to the fact that the horse could still carry their packs for them. As they neared Kynesgrove, the Dunmer asked, "So, would you like to explain how exactly you got the horse?"

"The innkeeper in Ivarstead gave him to me."

"What's wrong with it, then?"

"Nothing. He just couldn't afford to keep him fed."

"No one gives away a perfectly good horse, Edwin. There must be something wrong with him."

"Remy didn't seem to think so," Edwin replied, affectionately patting his horse's neck. It technically wasn't a lie-Remy hadn't said anything bad about him. He just hadn't said anything positive, either. He wasn't just going to stand there and let Marcel insult his horse, though, and that was the best reply he could think of.

"What?" The Dunmer froze for a moment, then trotted back to his original place beside the Nord. "Remy was here? In Skyrim?"

"I met him near Ustengrav; he helped me look for the horn," said Edwin, confused as to why Marcel was so put off by the fact that the Nord had run into his father, and why it was so strange for the Champion of Cyrodiil to have decided to visit Skyrim.

"Short Dunmer, pink hair, oddly bright blue skin?"

"Yes. ...He asked me to tell you he said 'hello'."

"Of course," Marcel sighed, "I haven't seen the bastard in thirty years, and he can't even be arsed to stop by and say 'hello' in person."

"He said something about going on vacation; he must have just been in a hurry," Edwin said, hoping he hadn't just driven a wedge between Marcel and his family. Remy had seemed nice enough; he didn't think the Dunmer would have avoided visiting his son without a good reason. He'd been more... pleasant than his own father, at least. It would have been nice to know a family that... got along better than his. Not that his family didn't get along-they just didn't always agree on things. Sometimes they really didn't agree on things. That happened to every family, though; it wasn't anything unusual. Was it?

Marcel must have guessed what he was thinking, as he studied Edwin's face for a moment before shrugging and saying, "It really isn't that important. If he's here, I'm sure I'll find him eventually. Right now, it looks like we have more important things to focus on." The Dunmer pointed to where Delphine stood talking to another, obviously distressed, woman.

It seemed that they had arrived in Kynesgrove just after a dragon did, and when they reached the town's dragon burial mound they saw what Edwin recognized as the same dragon that had attacked Helgen hovering above it and using some kind of dark magic to breathe new life into the ancient bones it contained. The skeletal beast soon coated itself in new layers of muscle and scale and took to the skies, giving the three of them a far more urgent matter to attend to than understanding how such a thing was possible.

They somehow managed to bring the dragon down before it could do any damage to them or the village, and as its soul flowed into Edwin's body, Delphine said, "Wait. Something's happening... gods above! So you really are... I... it's true, isn't it? You really are Dragonborn. ...I owe you some answers, don't I? Go ahead. Whatever you want to know. Nothing held back."

"Who are you and what do you want with me?" Edwin asked, trying to divert his attention from the sight of Marcel climbing the dragon's skeleton and sawing a few remaining patches of scales off its bones.

"I'm one of the last members of the Blades. A very long time ago, the Blades were dragonslayers, and we served the Dragonborn, the greatest dragonslayer. For the last two hundred years, since the last Dragonborn emperor, the Blades have been searching for a purpose. Now that dragons are coming back, our purpose is clear again. We need to stop them."

"So, what's our next move?" Edwin wasn't sure why she'd needed to steal the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller before meeting him, but Delphine seemed trustworthy enough, and obviously wanted the same thing he did. Working with her for at least a little while longer couldn't hurt anything.

"The first thing we need to do is figure out who's behind the dragons. The Thalmor are our best lead. If they aren't involved, they'll know who is."

"What makes you think the Thalmor are bringing dragons back?"

"Nothing solid. Yet. But my gut tells me it can't be anybody else. The Empire had captured Ulfric. The war was basically over. Then a dragon attacks, Ulfric escapes, and the war is back on. And now the dragons are attacking everywhere, indiscriminately. Skyrim is weakened, the Empire is weakened. Who else gains from that but the Thalmor?"

"That's ridiculous," Marcel said, walking toward them with his arms full of dragon scales. "I hate them as much as you do, but the Thalmor want to bring about the end of the world as we know it themselves. They'd never let something else do it for them; their pride won't allow it."

Delphine sighed. "As I said before, even if the Thalmor aren't behind this, they might know who is. ...Is that my bow?"

"Well, that really depends on your definition of 'ownership', though I suppose you could say-"

"So, we need to find out what the Thalmor know about the dragons. How do you think we should do that?" Edwin asked before Marcel could finish whatevet he'd planned on saying, hoping that Delphine wouldn't try to start an argument with the Dunmer.

"If we could get into the Thalmor Embassy... it's the center of their operations in Skyrim... Problem is, that place is locked up tighter than a miser's purse. They could teach me a few things about paranoia..." Delphine replied, seemingly willing to ignore the Dunmer for the time being. "The Thalmor ambassador, Elenwen, regularly throws parties where the rich and connected cozy up to the Thalmor. If we could get you into one of those parties, you could get away and find Elenwen's secret files."

"Why me?" Edwin asked. "If you someone to go sneaking for you, shouldn't you ask Marcel? He's better at that sort of thing than I am."

"Marcel can't go for the same reason I can't. Both of us are known to the Thalmor, but they wouldn't recognize you. We don't want to blow our cover until we have those files."

"You don't understand, I can't go," the Nord replied, his heart beating faster as a feeling of panic began to grow withing him. He couldn't go to a Thalmor party with his family history, and even if he did go he'd never manage to sneak away.

"You have to. It's the only way."

"But I grew up in Markarth; it's crawling with Thalmor," Edwin protested. "If one of them is at the party, they'll recognize me. My father is a Stormcloak. They'd be just as suspicious of me as they are of you."

"That may be so, but every Thalmor agent had orders to capture or kill Marcel and I on sight last time I checked. You still have a better chance than either of us."

"Isn't there something else I could do? By the Nine, I could even get the invitation for you if you want, but I just can't go to the damned party," the Nord offered before he had a chance to think better of it. When both Marcel and Delphine looked at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion, he continued, "...I know someone in the Thalmor. He hates them as much as we do."

"The former Stormcloak is on speaking terms with a Thalmor?" Marcel asked, taking a step backward.

Oh gods, this was not good. "He's just a family friend. My mother was a city guard; she worked with him sometimes."

Marcel studied his face for several tense moments before relaxing his posture and replying, "All right. I can't speak for Delphine, but I believe you."

"If he believes you, I suppose I can, too," Delphine said. "It's not as though we have much choice, anyway. I have a contact inside the Embassy. He's not up for this kind of high-risk mission, but he can help you if you can find a way to get yourself inside. His name's Malborn. Wood elf, plenty of reason to hate the Thalmor. You can trust him. I'll send word for him to meet you in Solitude, at the Winking Skeever. He'll be waiting there for you once you get that invitation of yours. Meet me at the Solitude stables after you've arranged things with Malborn. Any questions?"

Edwin was about to insist that he couldn't be the one to go to the Embassy yet again, but Marcel beat him to it.

"If he says he can't go, he can't go," the Dunmer said. "I'll go to the party. It's about time I stopped being dead, anyway. Besides, I'm much more charming than he is."

"And how is you getting yourself captured supposed to help us?"

"I won't get captured. Elenwen isn't going to ruin her party and risk upsetting the Nords by capturing me in front of them. She'd look like a fool if her security wasn't good enough to keep one of the Thalmor's enemies out, and she knows it."

"All right; it's your funeral. I just hope you two know what you're doing," Delphine replied as she walked away, leaving them alone with the dragon skeleton.

"So, how do you two know each other, exactly?" Edwin asked once she was out of earshot. They obviously had the same thoughts about the Thalmor, but for the life of him the Nord couldn't figure out whether Marcel or Delphine were on friendly terms with one another or not.

"We're mutual admirers of each other's work," the Dunmer replied. "We're just not admirers of each other. It's a bit complicated; Remy and the Blades were never on particularly good terms... I don't think you want the whole history lesson."

"Fair enough," Edwin replied, relieved that, at the very least, Marcel and Delphine weren't likely to harm each other. "...Thank you for... you know..."

"Helping you out back there?" the Dunmer finished his sentence for him. "It was nothing. Let's just hope this contact of yours is as trustworthy as you say he is, or you'll owe me a lot more than gratitude..."

"He is," Edwin replied, glad that the ordeal was over. He wasn't sure what he would have done without Marcel there to volunteer to attend the party in his place. "We should probably stop by Ivarstead before meeting with him, though; I really do need to get this horn back to the Greybeards."

"That's fine by me," Marcel said, placing a hand on the hilt of his dagger. "As lovely as they are, I think I can manage spending just a bit more time apart from the Thalmor."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken a few liberties with the Dark Brotherhood questline, as I feel that including all the smaller, non plot-essential contracts would detract from this fanfic's overall narrative. This thing really doesn't need the extra padding they would add, anyway.

"Is there a reason you couldn't make your trip to Falkreath while I was with the Greybeards?" Edwin asked as they neared a large, stone wall. They had initially planned to reach Markarth by the previous morning, but for whatever reason Edwin's horse hadn't been as open to the idea of being borrowed while his master climbed High Hrothgar as Edwin was, so Marcel had had to take the Nord to Falkreath with him. And run off like a madman into the forest once they got there so Edwin didn't get a chance to see what his business there had been. It hadn't been the Dunmer's finest moment.

"Because that damn horse of yours tried to kill me?" It wasn't much of an exaggeration, really. The horse had seemed perfectly happy with their arrangement up until Marcel had actually tried to climb onto his saddle, at which point he'd been thrown and quite nearly trampled by the animal. Maybe it had smelled the blood on him; he had tried to leave Ivarstead as soon as the beggar Narfi was good and dead. Though he liked to think he'd cleaned himself up better than that.

It was going to take more than a dip in a river to wash the man's blood out of his mind, though. The Dunmer was no stranger to killing, but he was going to have to seriously reconsider his involvement in the Dark Brotherhood if Muiri, the woman he was supposed to accept a contract from, wanted him to kill another defenseless, seemingly undeserving person. At least Edwin having to meet with his Thalmor contact gave him a good excuse to go to Markarth; he didn't think that the Nord would have appreciated having to make another unnecessary stop.

"You probably just startled him." Edwin said, snapping the Dunmer's thoughts back to the present. "He's never reacted like that when I ride him."

Right. They'd been talking about the horse. "Does it matter why he tried to kill me? Whatever his reasons were, it's his fault we couldn't make it to Falkreath until after you were done with the Greybeards." They were almost at the wall's base now, and the fading sunlight glinting off the large, bronze gates of the city was strangely beautiful. Probably not beautiful enough to make up for their delay in getting to them, but still definitely worth seeing.

"I suppose a gray-skin like you would blame the horse," Edwin said, a smile slowly working its way across his face.

"And only a Nord would trust his horse over a Dunmer," Marcel replied. It was nice to see Edwin happy again. The boy had been much too careful in their interactions for the Dunmer's liking since they'd started traveling together again.

Once Edwin's homicidal mount had been safely deposited at the stables, they entered the city, and found themselves standing in the marketplace just in time to see a woman brutally murdered. Marcel would have found that alone to be unsettling, but the remainder of Markarth's population returning to their lives as though nothing had happened once the guards had dealt with the murderer and removed the woman's corpse, made it feel utterly surreal.

"Welcome to Markarth," Edwin sighed, seemingly as unaffected by what he'd just witnessed as the rest of the city's population.

"...What just happened?" Maybe the Dunmer had just seen things wrong... Gods knew he hoped he had. Or at the very least, he hoped that the woman hadn't been Muiri. That would have been difficult to explain to Astrid... The jester the Dark Brotherhood had acquired while he was slaying dragons with Edwin seemed to be trying her patience more than enough.

"It could have been anything, really. She might have found out too much, been involved with the forsworn..." Edwin replied. "Whatever it was, she's dead and that's that."

"This doesn't bother you?" Marcel couldn't believe what he'd just heard. The same Edwin that had called him a coward for not charging blindly into battle and been horrified at the thought of him stealing had just witnessed a murder... and not had any discernable reaction to it.

"Why should it? It happens all the time."

"People are murdered in the street... all the time?

"It's normal here," Edwin replied with a shrug. "That or dragged off to the mines."

"All right, then." Marcel couldn't help but feel a newfound sense of respect for Edwin's moral code. If he'd managed to maintain such a strong sense of right and wrong growing up in a place like this, he either had inhuman amounts of willpower or damn good parents. Well, a damn good mother, anyway. If what Edwin had said about him was anything to go by, the Nord's father was probably just as bad an influence as Markarth. "So, what's our plan?"

"I'm going to see if I can arrange a meeting with my contact. You're free to come with me, if you want."

"I think I'll just go and get myself a drink, if it's all the same to you," Marcel replied. He generally made Thalmor agents, regardless of their loyalties, somewhat uncomfortable, to say the least. It was probably for the best if Edwin met this contact of his alone.

"I'll meet you at the gates in the morning, then. Try not to get involved in this mess," Edwin said, gesturing to the drying puddle of blood that was all that remained of the events they'd just witnessed. And with that, Marcel was left to his own devices.

As the Dunmer was about to enter the inn, he was stopped by a red haired Breton with tattoos covering most of his face. "I think you dropped this. Some kind of note. Looks important," the man said, pressing a slip of paper into his hand.

Marcel was well aware that he hadn't dropped anything, and Edwin's warning to not get involved in things was still fresh in his mind, but something in the man's eyes stopped him from dropping the note or simply giving it back to him. Instead, he pocketed the slip of paper, making a mental note to have a look at it later. "Thank you," he replied, opening the inn's door. "It would have been a shame to lose this before I got a chance to read it." The Breton was gone before he'd even finished his sentence, and as Marcel entered the inn he found himself wondering again how a city like this could have produced someone like Edwin.

He'd originally planned to start looking for Muiri as soon as he entered the inn, but as the smell of spilled mead and stew of questionable quality burning over a fire washed over him, the Dunmer realized that he really did need to get himself a drink. He couldn't remember imbibing a single alcoholic beverage since coming to Skyrim, and after everything he'd been through in that time he'd definitely earned at least five.

Marcel perched himself on a stool next to a blond Breton who seemed much more interested in the tankard of mead in front of him than trying to make conversation, and ordered himself a bottle of wine. Either the people of Skyrim cared nothing for where and when their wine came from or the label had been removed in order to hide its inferior quality, and a cautious taste of the beverage revealed that it was probably the latter. And watered down, to boot. The Dunmer grimaced, placing the almost-full bottle on the counter in front of him with a solid thud. He was going to need to mentally fortify himself if he wanted to finish that.

"It's pretty bad, ain't it?" The Breton Marcel had sat next to downed what was left of his own drink with a frown. "Everything's watered down here. Gods, they'd probably water down the water if they could."

"I'm not so sure they haven't," the Dunmer dryly replied, his second drink of wine having proved to be much the same as the first. So much for getting drunk.

The Breton laughed and turned to face him. "Guess they aren't even serving visitors the good stuff anymore."

"Not the gray ones, anyway."

The Breton shrugged, the small braid tucked behind his ear swaying slightly. He looked at the Dunmer for a moment, his blue eyes slowly drifting over the elf's frame, but before Marcel could properly return the favor he asked, "You a fighting man? How about a little bet?"

"What?" That certainly wasn't the direction Marcel had thought-hoped, really-things were going in. Then again, he supposed that his battered leather armor and the layer of dirt he'd gathered while traveling wouldn't have made him look particularly intimidating. Granted, the Breton didn't look much better; the leather harness and furs he was wearing wouldn't have looked out of place on a bandit, and his own layer of dirt and the stubble covering his jaw matched, if not exceeded, the Dunmer's disheveled appearance quite nicely.

"I'm drunk, and it's been a while since I had a good fight. A hundred septims says I can take ya, bare-handed."

Normally, Marcel wouldn't have even considered getting into an honest fist fight with someone so much more muscular than he was, but the fact that the Breton's lightly slurred speech indicated that he was, in fact, as drunk as he believed himself to be, and the offer of a respectable amount of gold if he won won out over his better judgment. "All right. You have yourself a bet."

"That's the spirit! Let's go."

Both parties were on their feet in a heartbeat, and the Dunmer had ducked out of the way of his opponent's first punch in another. Marcel couldn't help but admire the amount of grace and speed the man was capable of in such an inebriated state as they chased each other around the room, neither managing to land more than a glancing blow on the other. The Breton really wasn't someone he'd have normally taken an interest in, but Marcel found himself drawn in by the way his eyes narrowed in concentration, blinking away a drop of sweat that proceeded to smear the two lines of war paint he'd applied just under each eye as he planned his next move. And, while it did leave the Dunmer at somewhat of a disadvantage, he really was quite well-built.

Unfortunately, he was also more than willing to take advantage of Marcel's momentary distraction and send him sprawling across the floor. The impact from hitting the floor left the Dunmer dazed for a moment, but he snapped back to full alertness when the Breton tried to pin him. As soon as he felt the man's weight on him, Marcel reflexively slammed an elbow into his face, sending him reeling back. He was on his opponent in an instant, relief washing over him once the man was well and truly immobilized, but it was soon replaced by a feeling of guilt when he saw the blood running down the Breton's face and realized what he'd done.

"Oh gods, I'm sorry," Marcel said, releasing his victim. Spending so much time on the Thalmor's bad side had left him with a set of reflexes that, while they usually served him well, had a tendency to damage anyone who accidentally set them off.

"It's all right," the Breton replied, wiping his bloodied nose on his arm as he sat up. "You won, fair and square."

"Are you all right?" the Dunmer asked, taking the man's hand and helping him to his feet.

"Think my nose might be broken, but I've had worse." After a few moments of rummaging through his pockets, the man handed Marcel a moderately heavy coin purse. "Should be around a hundred septims in there."

"Looks about right to me. I've got a healing potion, if you think it'll help."

"I could probably think of a few uses for one," the Breton replied, a lopsided grin working its way across his face as he looked the Dunmer over a second time, much more slowly than the first. Gods, Marcel hoped that look meant what he thought it did. Maybe the night wasn't a lost cause, after all.

"So could I..." the Dunmer said, taking advantage of his opportunity to properly look the man over without getting a fist in the face for his trouble. He wasn't as alluring as he had been while fighting, but he certainly wasn't unattractive, either. And if he was capable of the same intensity and passion he showed while fighting in other aspects of his life... Well, much as he'd enjoyed their brawl, Marcel definitely preferred using... other methods to relieve tension.  
The Breton laughed. "You aren't half bad, you know that?" He offered the Dunmer his hand. "I'm Cosnach."

"Marcel," Marcel replied, firmly clasping the man's hand and giving it a good shake.

"So... Do you want to get to know each other a little better?" Cosnach asked, leaning in close to the Dunmer, his breath ghosting over Marcel's ear. "I have a room in the Warrens; it's not far from here."

A pleasant shiver ran up the Dunmer's spine at the action; it really had been too long. "What are we still standing around for, then?"

The Warrens really weren't far from the inn, and while Cosnach's room itself certainly left something to be desired, Marcel couldn't complain about the company. As soon as the door was shut behind them, the Breton was on him, firmly covering his lips with his own. They somehow managed to find their way to a pile of hay that must have served as Cosnach's bed in the dim light, collapsing onto it in a decidedly less than graceful manner. After several moments of frustrated fumbling both parties had disposed of their armor and were on each other once more, only breaking apart long enough for Marcel to dig what he hoped was a healing potion out of his pack.

Even with the healing potion, the Dunmer was definitely going to be sore the next day, but he didn't-couldn't-bring himself to care. It was the only time in his life when he didn't have to be in control, or on his guard, and he reveled in every exquisite moment of it. All too soon, it was over, both parties still clinging to each other as their breathing gradually grew less ragged and the previously hot air around them cooled to a slightly damp chill.

Marcel shivered at the sudden loss of warmth when Cosnach rolled off him, and after sitting up considered trying to find his armor so he could leave before the Breton had to ask him to. Cosnach soon returned with a blanket, however, and wrapped it around both of them. "You're free to stay, if ya want," he said, putting an arm over the Dunmer's shoulders.

"Thanks," Marcel replied, contentedly leaning against the Breton. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been allowed to stay the night with a lover; apparently being wanted by the Thalmor was enough of a turn-off to keep people from wanting him in their homes any longer than necessary. He supposed that he could get used to relative anonymity if it meant more nights like this... Before he could think better of it, he said, "I'm leaving the city to go adventuring tomorrow; if you're as good with a weapon as you are with your fists, you're welcome to come along."

"Sure, why not? I'm pretty sure I have a mace around here somewhere," Cosnach replied, stroking the Dunmer's hair. "Does that mean you'll want to do this again sometime, then?"

"Most likely," Marcel purred. He tried not to stay with anyone long enough to get attached to them-it always turned them into a liability-but he'd already broken that rule with Edwin, and the Nord had given him less reason to like him than Cosnach had. He hadn't done a single thing he would have considered normal since coming to Skyrim, really, and he wasn't about to start if it meant losing a chance to have a lover for more than one night. It was too good a feeling to let go of, even if it only lead to pain in the end. Granted, he had no idea how Edwin would react to the new addition to their party, but after demanding that Marcel attend Elenwen's little party in his place, he really had no right to complain.

"It's settled, then. I'm going with you." And with that, the two of them settled down for a much needed night of sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a slightly alternative interpretation of Ondolemar here, largely based on the fact that, in-game, he does absolutely nothing if you actually complete his quest to find evidence of Talos worship. I decided to take this to mean that he is intentionally terrible at his job, which resulted in many plot points being born.

Edwin paused at the entrance to Understone Keep, casting a longing glance at the city behind him. Maybe coming home had been a mistake; entering the Thalmor Embassy himself couldn't have been too bad... could it? It was too late to turn back now, though. Besides, he had more important things to ask about than a party invitation, and he wasn't likely to get a better opportunity any time soon. Even if asking meant acknowledging things he preferred not to think about.

He found Ondolemar patrolling the upper levels of the Keep, surrounded by a pair of Thalmor soldiers that made him seriously consider leaving and and trying his luck again later. The Altmer caught sight of him before he could make a decision, however, and took the choice from him by beckoning for him to come closer.

"You have the honor of addressing a member of the Thalmor. Bask in it," Ondolemar said. He wasn't much taller than Edwin, but the sneer on his face as he looked down his nose at the Nord was enough to make him feel small as an ant. "Is there a reason you came here today?"

"Um... yes. I have evidence of Talos worship..." Edwin replied, hoping he sounded less confused than he felt. He had no idea when his life had begun revolving more around his ability to lie than acting honorably, but he wished he could go back to the way things used to be. Everything was easier when he could just be direct with people.

"Excellent." Ondolemar turned to his guards. "You are dismissed. I will be in my quarters, should my presence be required for anything." And with that, Edwin was whisked off to a small, but well-appointed chamber deep within the Keep's walls. A large, four-poster bed occupied most of the wall nearest the door, with a desk covered in papers and what appeared to be a half-eaten sweetroll positioned against the opposite wall.

"So," the Altmer began, smiling warmly as he gestured to the only chair in the room as he seated himself on the bed. "What brings you here today?"

"I, um... need to ask a favor of you..." Edwin replied. He never could get used to the abrupt changes on demeanor that came along with any interaction with Ondolemar. Or at least, every interaction since he'd reached adulthood. Even after knowing it was only an act for years, his air of smug superiority always seemed so genuine...

"What do you need?"

"Do you think you could get someone into the next party at the Thalmor Embassy?"

Ondolemar looked at him as though he'd grown a second head, eyebrows raised higher than was at all natural. "Whatever for?"

"It's a bit of a long story..."

"I have time."

Edwin took a deep breath, then launched into a retelling of all that had happened since that fateful day in Helgen. Ondolemar seemed to twitch every time he mentioned Marcel's role in their adventures, but the Nord was certain he must have been seeing things; he'd known the Altmer since he was a child, and in all that time he'd never seen Ondolemar so much as flinch. "So, we're hoping that the Thalmor know something about the dragons, and breaking into the Embassy is the best way to do that."

"And you intend to accomplish this by having me forge an invitation... for one of the Thalmor's most wanted fugitives?"

"Yes." Maybe this had been a bad idea...

"Do you know what he does to Thalmor agents?"

"Not exactly... I'll be sure to tell him you're off limits, if that's what you're worried about."

"Edwin, if anyone finds out what's going on, or that I'm behind this..."

"You'll make an invitation for him, then?"

Ondolemar sighed. "Yes. Just... be careful around Marcel. If he find out that you are-"

Edwin tensed. He should have known that their conversation would come to this sooner or later. "As far as he knows, Head-Smasher is my father. For all the good you've been lately, he may as well be."

Ondolemar looked as though he'd been slapped, and Edwin instantly regretted what he'd said. "I'm sorry I couldn't find your mother, Edwin... I've done all I can without drawing attention to myself, and you know what would happen to us if my superiors found out I was interested in locating a missing Nord woman."

Much as he hated to admit it, Edwin knew the Altmer was right. It wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation, either. When his mother had gone missing while helping the other city guards fight off a band of Forsworn a few months ago he'd gone to Ondolemar for help, only to be told that, not only was Ondolemar as helpless as he was in regards to finding her, but that they'd both been lying to him his whole life. He didn't-couldn't-believe that the Altmer was his father then, and had left to join the Stormcloaks that very night, to prove to himself that it couldn't possibly be true, that he was a full Nord and a true son of Skyrim.

In the end, all he managed to do was prove how different he was from his countrymen. While his cooking skills frequently made him an object of ridicule among the other soldiers, they were also the only thing that kept him from being sent home outright due to his lack of strength. Even looking at himself in the mirror only led to him realizing that his unusual height, slight build, amber eyes, and, much as he liked to deny their existence, slightly pointed ears, all pointed to him having Altmer blood. ...It was time to stop running. If he could face a dragon, there was no reason he couldn't also face being a half-breed. "I'm sorry, too. I... shouldn't have said that."

Ondolemar smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I know. I'll make you the invitation, just give me a moment."

Edwin sat in silence as the Altmer located a blank piece of parchment and composed what looked like an invitation on the desk beside him. When he was done, he folded it neatly and handed it to Edwin.

"Thank you," the Nord said, tucking the paper into his pack.

"It's the least I can do. Just promise that you will be careful."

"I promise," Edwin sighed. "Marcel is a friend; I can trust him." Attempting to defend a Dunmer's honor felt odd, to say the least, but, at that moment, it also felt right. If Marcel found out that Ondolemar was his father, he was certain that he'd understand. Or at least, he'd understand better than a Thalmor agent. And with that, he exited Ondolemar's quarters, unwilling to discuss his activities-or worse, his mother-any further. The moon was high in the sky when he left Understone Keep in favor of Markarth's streets; it was late, but hopefully not too late to find someone, anyone he knew still up and about. He needed some happier memories.

If he was lucky, Cosnach would probably be at the inn. If he was luckier still, the man would be relatively sober and not involved in a drunken confrontation with another of the inn's patrons. By the Nine, even Marcel would have made for decent company, if he was the only person available. Going back to Ondolemar wasn't an option. It would draw too much attention to them, and he wasn't ready to start having sappy, emotional, womanly conversations with the elf just yet.

His arrival at the Silver-Blood Inn, however, revealed that it was not his lucky night, unless he felt like conversing with the irritable beggar, Degaine, or the constantly bickering family that ran the inn. In the end, he decided that he'd simply try to locate his childhood friend in the morning, and made his way to his, now-empty, family home.

It wasn't a particularly large dwelling, only a step above the Warrens, really, and the months it had spent uninhabited left its interior covered in a layer of dust, but he'd missed it all the same. While the silence that filled its rooms served as a reminder that his mother had yet to be found and, if the usual state of things in Markarth was anything to go by, probably never would be, the good memories it held outweighed the bad. Exhausted, he flopped down onto his old bed, sneezing at the army of dust particles the action sent flying through the air, and settled into a deep, restful sleep.

He awoke early the next morning and, after a breakfast of a slightly stale loaf of bread he had in his pack followed by cleaning as much of the house as he could so that, with any luck, it would look better the next time he returned to the city, set out in search of Cosnach. He'd not had any contact with his old friend since leaving to join the Stormcloaks and, he remembered with the slightest twinge of regret, he hadn't exactly told the man he was leaving in the first place. It was probably time to fix that.

It was too early for Arnleif and Sons to be open, if Cosnach even still worked there, so Edwin decided to begin his search in the Warrens. Even if his friend wasn't there, odds were that someone would be able to tell Edwin where he'd gone. If they were willing to overlook the fact that he was a well-armed Nord in a city where Bretons rarely managed to rise above the poverty line, anyway.

His initial knock on Cosnach's door went unanswered, and when the silence continued after his second knock he assumed he'd need to look elsewhere. As he turned to leave, however, a sleepy voice drawled a hardly intelligible "Who is it?".

"Edwin," the Nord replied. Another silence followed his response and, if the hurried rustling noises punctuated by an occasional muffled curse, many of which in a voice too deep to belong to Cosnach, were anything to go by, he knew exactly why it had been so difficult to wake the Breton. "Isn't it a bit early to be dragging conquests home with you?"

"He decided to stay the night; it isn't that strange."

"Should I come back another time, then?" Granted, Edwin wasn't entirely sure when 'another time' would be given the current state of his life, but anything was better than making his current situation any more awkward than it already was.

After a brief, muffled conversation Cosnach replied, "No, now is fine."

"All right... Can I stop talking to your door, then?"

"Yeah, that's probably for the best." A moment later, the elaborately engraved, if somewhat dirty and battered door, swung open to reveal a rumpled, but at least mostly clothed, Cosnach. Either he'd gotten shorter, or Edwin had grown again since the last time they'd seen each other. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine." Edwin paused for a moment before entering the room, not entirely certain that he wanted to make the acquaintance of whoever the Breton had in there with him, but ultimately decided that it was too late to turn back and followed the man into his home. Had he known the sight that awaited him, he probably would have chosen differently.

After a painfully awkward silence that seemed to stretch on forever, Marcel, more neatly dressed than Cosnach but sporting an impressive amount of straw in his hair that somehow left him looking more disheveled, said, "Well, at least I don't have to introduce the two of you now..." If nothing else, he had the decency to blush and stare intently at the dirt floor.

"What?" Edwin didn't have the slightest idea why the Dunmer had felt as though he'd need to introduce him to Cosnach; they clearly weren't considering marriage at that point. Maybe it was just something people in Cyrodiil did.

"He's coming adventuring with us... Assuming that's all right with you. We could use a pair of extra hands."

"C'mon Ed, it'll be fun," Cosnach said, tugging on his ponytail. "I can't let my little brother go adventuring all by himself, can I?"

"...Brother?" Marcel's face contorted into an expression somewhere between confusion and horror.

"Not by blood. We were close as children, and Cosnach stayed with my mother and I so often that he felt more like a sibling than a friend," Edwin replied. His answer seemed to soothe the Dunmer's concern, as he let out an audible sigh of relief and his face returned to a more neutral expression.

"Should I leave you two to catch up, then? We should probably replenish our supplies before leaving the city."

"If you wouldn't mind. Just be careful of the meat here; I wouldn't trust anything but the chicken." It was probably nothing, but stories of 'beef' turning out to be anything but had been going around the city when he left, and Edwin had no desire to find out if they were true.

"Will do," Marcel replied, clearly willing to simply accept Edwin's word. "Do either of you know where to find an alchemist in this city? We could use some more potions now that there's another person in our party."

"You'll probably want to try The Hag's Cure. It's on the upper level of the city, next to the Jarl's palace," Cosnach said.

"Thanks." After pulling the Breton in for a brief kiss, Marcel left the room, and Edwin realized that he was going to have a lot to adjust to.

"So... I see you've met Marcel," the Nord said.

"Yeah... I kinda picked a fight with him last night, and one thing led to another..."

"You were drunk, weren't you?"

"Maybe."

Edwin sighed. "Coz, you know what's going to happen if the guards catch you fighting again..."

"Like I have anything better to do. Damn Forsworn attack every shipment that comes in, so I don't have any work to do. All I can do is drink, and I gotta pay for that somehow."

Edwin cringed. Cosnach had always been a bit overly fond of his mead, but things had clearly grown worse since he'd left. Getting away from the city for a while would probably be good for him. He just wished he'd thought of that himself. "I just don't want to see you thrown in Cidhna Mine, all right?"

"I know... I should've just found myself someone to keep me in line while you were away, huh?" Cosnach sheepishly rubbed the back of his head. "It would've been a bit less lonely, at least."

"And I should've told you I was leaving. ...You could have stayed at the house, you know. You have a key."

"It just wouldn't have felt right. Besides, you're back now, and that's what matters."

"It is. At least adventuring will give you something to do, right?"

"It better. Maybe we'll get to see a dragon or two, if they're really coming back."

"They are."

"Really? So you've seen one?"

"I have. It turns out, I'm the Dragonborn..."

Cosnach just stared at him for a moment then, once it was clear Edwin hadn't been trying to make a joke of some kind, clapped a hand onto his shoulder. "See? I told you you'd get stronger someday!"

Edwin smiled. After everything that had happened, at least Cosnach hadn't changed. Everyone else may have seen him as a hero or been terrified byhis ability to Shout, but it was good to know that the Breton would always see him as a friend and brother. "It's good to see you again, Coz. I'm glad you're coming with us."

"Me, too. ...Me being with Marcel isn't going to bother you, right?"

It was Edwin's turn to be silent for a moment, as he tried to reconcile the sheer awkwardness of finding his closest friend in bed with... what was probably his second-closest friend, really, with the hopeful, almost pleading expression on Cosnach's face. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the idea of them... together, let alone like it, but he wasn't against the idea, either. As long as they were both happy, he supposed it wasn't really his business in the first place. "It's fine. Just try not to make too much noise."

The force behind Cosnach's ensuing hug and the happiness in his voice as he thanked Edwin were more than enough to convince him that he'd done the right thing.


	11. Dilomatic Immunity: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to update this again... Sorry. Though on the upside, that does mean this gets another double update, right?

Solitude looked to be the most promising city Marcel had visited since leaving Cyrodiil. It had proper walls, buildings composed of stone that didn't predate written history, and guards that had no qualms about allowing Dunmer through the city gates. Not to mention the fact that it was supposedly the seat of Imperial power in Skyrim and a major trade center, to boot. With any luck, he'd be able to find (if not necessarily afford) at least some of the comforts of his homeland. And potentially find a way to transport some of the funds from his accounts in Cyrodiil to Skyrim. It seemed as though his luck was finally starting to change for the better, really.

Or at least it did, until he was greeted by the sight of a freakishly well-attended public execution the moment he, Edwin, and Cosnach stepped through the city gates. The crowd was all but impossible to pass through, leaving them with no choice but to stay and watch as a man who allowed Ulfric Stormcloak to flee the city after murdering Skyrim's king was beheaded.

As his head rolled off the raised platform the execution had taken place on, the crowd let out a cheer and, in the case of those who happened to be standing near enough to the platform to still have a view of the head once it hit the ground, aimed a harsh kick or glob of saliva in its general direction.

The Dunmer found it to be somewhat unsettling. He wasn't opposed to bloodshed by any means-he'd accepted a contract to slaughter a bandit leader and potentially a defenseless young woman from the surprisingly non-murderous-or-psychotic-looking Muiri before leaving Markarth, for the Divines' sake-but he preferred to think that most people weren't as willing to participate in someone's death as he was. It certainly raised the question of whether the Dark Brotherhood was necessary in such a blood-thirsty world. Even he didn't get that excited over a kill unless it had either been particularly spectacular or he'd managed to put an end to a reasonably high-ranking Thalmor officer... and even then, the latter was mostly for show. Having your enemies convinced that you weren't entirely right in the head was never a bad thing, in his experience..

Edwin seemed to share his opinion, averting his gaze from the spectacle as a scowl worked its way across his face. "Milk drinkers," he muttered. "Ulfric killed Torygg in a fair fight, and everyone knows it. They should be singing the praises of the man who opened the gates for him, not spitting on his corpse."

Marcel sighed. "As much as I am against the execution of someone only tenuously connected to a crime, I really don't see how Ulfric murdering your king was even remotely legal or justified. Giving diplomacy another try would have been a better option for everyone involved."

"Torygg accepted Ulfric's challenge; everyone knows that that meant one of them was going to end up dead. It's not murder if you kill someone in an honorable challenge. If a man can't defend his throne, he isn't fit to be king."

"Maybe we shouldn't be talking about this here..." Cosnach said, shifting uncomfortably in his less-than-enviable position between Marcel and Edwin. "The guards are lookin' a bit testy; you probably don't wanna get their attention right now."

Marcel cringed. He really should have known better than to start a political debate with Edwin. Getting the Dragonborn carted off to prison for spouting Stormcloak beliefs while surrounded by supporters of the Empire was not on his to-do list. And doing so with Cosnach standing between them was just unkind. "That's probably for the best. We need to focus on finding Delphine's contact."

Edwin grumbled for a moment, but eventually mumbled his assent.

"So, what exactly are we here for?" Cosnach asked as they made their way to The Winking Skeever.

"I'm going to be attending a party at the Thalmor Embassy to see if our superior yellow friends know anything about this dragon problem of ours," Marcel replied.

"They talk about that sort of thing at their parties?"

"Probably not, lovely as that would be," Marcel sighed. Upon noticing the confused look on the Breton's face, he continued, "The party's just a convenient way to get me into the Embassy. If I want to learn anything useful, I'll need to sneak away from it at some point and try to get a look at any official dragon-related documents they have."

"...You know what the Thalmor do to people who cross them, right?"

"Yes, I do. But they can only do it if you get caught crossing them. I'll be careful."

"Wouldn't it make more sense for all of us to go, though? It'd be better to have more of us there... so we can help if you do get caught."

The Dunmer was silent for a moment, caught entirely off-guard. While it was probably a reaction that anyone would have had to hearing his 'plan'-if it could even rightfully be called that-to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy, he was still surprised that Cosnach seemed to be genuinely worried for him. Maybe it really had been too long since he'd let himself get close to someone... But that wasn't what he needed to focus on at the moment.

Marcel generally liked to wait until he'd known someone for more than a day before bringing up exactly how many years of experience with the Thalmor he'd had, especially when the person in question was a lover who would inevitably become aware of the... other pursuits he'd grown quite experienced in during that time, but it seemed like the best thing he could say given the current situation. "It's really better if I go alone. One person slipping away from a party is harder to notice than a group, and we only have one invitation. I've been on the Thalmor's bad side for well over a century now; I know what I'm getting into."

"All right," the Breton replied, "But I still don't like this. Dunno what you're bringing me along for if you're just gonna leave me behind while you do all the fighting..."

As troublesome as it was, Marcel couldn't help but find Cosnach's commitment to remaining at his side to be almost pleasant. Granted, it was a bit odd given the short span of time they'd known each other, but if his limited experience was anything to go by, that was just how things worked in Skyrim. The man was refreshingly direct, if nothing else. "I don't plan on making a habit of it. I need to dispose of a bandit leader once we're done here, and I'd prefer not to walk into his camp alone." The Dunmer was well aware that Dark Brotherhood contracts were generally best carried out in a solitary, subtle manner, but in this particular case he didn't see why he couldn't make an exception. Even if he did manage to reach and kill his target without being detected, leaving the bandits under his command to their own devices just seemed... irresponsible. And if he was going to eliminate the entire camp, an extra set of hands would be more than welcome.

That seemed to placate the Breton, and the rest of their walk to The Winking Skeever passed uneventfully. After a brief discussion on the inn's doorstep, it was decided that it would probably be best if Marcel went in alone. Risking the ire of the Thalmor was a stressful situation at the best of times, and being surrounded by three armed men who were quite likely to be considerably larger than he was could have easily had an undesirable effect on Delphine's contact's disposition. The last thing any of them wanted to do was give someone a heart attack.

Once he was inside, finding Delphine's contact, Malborn, proved to be a simple enough task. The overwhelming majority of the inn's patrons were Nords, or at least human, so the somewhat sour-looking Bosmer occupying a table tucked away in a corner wasn't difficult to pick out from the crowd.

"What do you want?" he asked, surveying the Dunmer as though he were a particularly unpleasant mess the cat had dragged in.

"Our 'mutual friend' sent me,"Marcel replied, seating himself across the table from the Bosmer. "Apparently you're a man who knows his way around all sorts of interesting places."

"Really? You're who she picked?" Malborn let out a short, harsh laugh. After casting a furtive glance around the bustling inn and its patrons who were, fortunately, too interested in their own conversations to pay much attention to a pair of scruffy-looking elves in a corner, he half-whispered, "I hope she knows what she's doing. Here's the deal. I can smuggle some equipment into the Embassy for you. Don't plan on bringing anything else in with you; the Thalmor take security very seriously. Give me what you can't live without, and I'll make sure to get it into the Embassy. The rest is up to you."

"Any suggestions as to what I'm going to need?" Marcel certainly didn't want to wander into a nest of Thalmor unprepared, but given the Bosmer's relatively small size it was probably a good idea to travel light.

"You're asking me? She promised that she was sending someone who knew what they were doing... If you actually want to get out alive, I'd bring whatever you need to move quietly, and kill quickly."

"Right. That narrows it down..." If he got so nervous and unpleasant over a simple smuggling job, Marcel hadn't the foggiest idea how Malborn managed to handle working in the Thalmor Embassy, of all places. Still, upsetting him further by voicing that opinion or suggesting that he wasn't being particularly helpful wasn't going to do either of them any favors. After a moment of deliberation, the Dunmer decided to make do with his bow and a handful of arrows, his sword and dagger, a healing potion, and several lockpicks. He hoped that it would result in him having over-packed for a rousing night of breaking and entering, but, as his mother was always fond of saying, better over encumbered than dead.

Once Malborn was sufficiently weighted down with his supplies, Marcel realized that he'd be needing his armor, as well. Unfortunately, his set of Dark Brotherhood armor was safely tucked away in a bag attached to Edwin's murderous horse. "I don't suppose you could wait a few moments while I get my spare set of armor?"

"What's wrong with the one you're wearing? I can't wait here forever; the party's tonight, in case you've forgotten."

Well, that was a new piece of information. It was a good thing Edwin hadn't been anxious to stay in Markarth... Though this did mean he was going to have to put his plans to visit the city market on hold. "This armor it is, then."

He and Malborn suddenly became much more interesting to The Winking Skeever's other patrons as he peeled off his leather armor and, after a moment of deliberation, the shirt he'd been wearing underneath it. It was too worn and blood-stained to serve as appropriate attire for a formal event, anyway, and he saw no reason to soil a clean one later for the sake of sparing the people of Solitude the sight of a few battle-scars. Once his audience had lost interest in the spectacle he'd provided, he handed Malborn the bundle of armor and said, "I'll be seeing you later tonight," before finding his way back to his companions.

"Did you really have to take your shirt off?" Edwin asked as he stepped out of the dingy inn and into the comparably fresh air of the city.

"Yes. No one's asking you to look, you know," Marcel replied, enjoying the Nord's exasperated sigh more than he probably should have. It almost made standing half-naked in the frigid Skyrim air worthwhile. The appreciative look Cosnach was giving him certainly helped. Apparently he hadn't scared the man off, after all. "It would have been somewhat alarming without my armor covering the bloodstains."

"Let's just go," Edwin sighed.

When they arrived at the stables, Delphine took one look at the shirtless Dunmer before saying, "Please tell me you don't plan to go to a party at the Thalmor Embassy dressed like that."

"Well, I was planning on wearing a shirt, too..." the Dunmer replied. His current attire wasn't ideal, but he wasn't in possession of anything nicer and there was no time to visit a tailor.

Delphine snorted, then thrust a bundle of clothing into his hands. "It's a good thing at least one of us came prepared, then. Put these on; they're not perfect but they'll have to do."

Upon closer examination, Marcel found himself holding a shirt of a better quality than anything he'd been able to obtain since entering Skyrim, as well as a red quilted coat to wear over it. They weren't exactly well-fitted, but they were warm, and probably looked better on him than anything else he had with him. "Do I look stuffy enough for them, now?"

"No, but that's as good as we're going to get," Delphine replied, shaking her head as she looked him over. "You should pass for a real guest, at least until you open your mouth. Just try not to get yourself killed; this has all been pointless if we don't get any information out of it."

"I promise I'll be on my best behavior."

"If that's all you can manage, we're all doomed. You did manage to get an actual invitation, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. Right, Edwin?"

"You mean I got an invitation," the Nord replied, handing him an official-looking envelope.

"So you do have a contact of your own," Delphine said, looking rather impressed with Edwin.

"Yes," the Nord replied stiffly. "Shouldn't we just focus on getting Marcel to the Embassy, now?"  
"You're right. There's a carriage waiting just over that hill; I'd go with you, but I've been out in the open long enough as it is." And with that, Delphine slipped into the shadow cast by the stable walls, leaving them alone.

"I suppose I'd better be off, then," Marcel said, "If I'm not back by this time tomorrow, assume I'm captured or dead and find Delphine in Riverwood." He had no desire to shake Edwin or Cosnach's confidence in his abilities, but he didn't want to risk anything in the event that things did go horribly wrong. He could always catch up with them if he was late and they left without him.

"All right. We'll be waiting for you at the inn."

As the Dunmer turned to leave, the Nord caught him by the sleeve and said, "If you run into an Altmer named Ondolemar, don't kill him. He's the one who got us the invitation."

"I'll keep that in mind," Marcel replied, stunned that Edwin had found the welfare of an Altmer to be worth worrying over. Maybe he wasn't so convinced that only Nords had a place in Skyrim after all... If nothing else, his connection to this Ondolemar of his was worth looking into.

It was hardly the time to be dwelling on Edwin's personal life and political views, though. He had an Embassy to infiltrate, and that was going to require his full attention.


	12. Diplomatic Immunity: Part Two

If he'd been one for theatrics, Marcel would have described the dull thud of the Thalmor Embassy's door as it shut behind him as ominous. As things stood, however, the brightly-lit room it opened into, and the scent of sweetrolls and brandy permeating the air reduced any tangible effect it might otherwise have had. Still, he was clearly getting quite jumpy if he found a door's sound to be at all worth thinking about. Infiltrating a new Thalmor stronghold always felt that way; he just needed to get started on his mission and things would feel nice and familiar in no time.

Speaking of familiarity, the moment the Dunmer stepped out of the doorway and into the party, none other than Elenwen herself descended upon him like a crow on carrion. He only hoped that he'd judged her correctly, and she valued the support of Skyrim's upper class more than having him apprehended.

"Welcome. I don't believe we've met," she said, a rather painful-looking forced smile twisting its way across her face as she extended her hand to him. 'I am Elenwen, the Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim. And you are...?"

So that's how she wanted to do things. It wouldn't have been Marcel's first choice in dealing with the situation, especially if any of the guards at the party had been present at Helgen, but he supposed it would do. "Marcel Lachance. Pleased to meet you," he replied, clasping her hand in his own with as much warmth and enthusiasm as he could muster. Initial awkwardness aside, this was going to be fun. "This is quite a party you have. It's my first time, you know. Where can I get a drink?"

After a cursory glance around the room to ensure that no unwanted eyes were upon them, Elenwen seized his wrist and drew him entirely too close for his liking. "I gave you an out," she hissed, her voice barely a whisper. "What in the name of the Eight Divines are you doing here?"

"Wouldn't you like to know..."

"You do realize what's going to happen if my superiors hear of this? If they decide I've been too lenient with you?"

For a heartbeat, her usual stoic mask slipped, and Marcel could have sworn he saw a flash of genuine worry and uncertainty in her eyes. He hadn't seen anything like it from her since they were children, playing together in the Imperial City's garden district. It was almost enough to convince him to leave, and go back to Edwin and Delphine with a lie that he hadn't found anything. A lie that was probably the truth. Then it was gone, replaced by her usual irritated glare, and he remembered who she was working for. Who she was leading now. "As much as I appreciate your offer, I'm afraid I have to decline. It's in the best interests of the Nine Divines that I stay here, really."

"This is your last chance to leave. I cannot allow you to jeopardize my position here. I don't want to do this, Marcel, but if you will not leave this place voluntarily then I will be forced to-"

"To what? Have your guards drag me away to whatever passes for a dungeon in this place? In front of all your rich, influential potential Skyrim allies? I'd say that would do much more to jeopardize your position here than failing to notice a single, lowly, insignificant, half-breed Dunmer that managed to sneak in uninvited."

"Do you really think I believe that?"

"No. It was worth a try though, wasn't it?"

"You're not leaving, then?"

"No. I'm not."

"You never were one to make things easy... For either of us."

"I'm sorry, Ellie," Marcel replied, breathing an inward sigh of relief when the Altmer cringed at the sound her her childhood nickname. If she was still willing to acknowledge their past, he doubted she would invest too much energy in having him watched or apprehended that night. "I wouldn't be me if I did."

"Madame Ambassador, I'm so sorry to interrupt..." a voice called out, startling the both of them.

"What is it, Malborn?" Elenwen snapped, turning her icy glare toward the Bosmer standing behind a counter stocked with an impressive assortment of alcoholic beverages. Marcel would definitely have to pay him a visit once he'd gotten rid of Elenwen.

"It's just that we've run out of the Alto wine. Do I have your permission to uncork the Arenthia red..."

"Of course. I've told you before not to bother me with such trifles."

"Yes, Madame Ambassador."

Elenwen turned back to Marcel and, after an exasperated sigh, said, "I've spent too much time away from my invited guests as it is. I cannot spare the time and resources it would require to have you removed in a discreet and timely fashion, so consider this another gesture of goodwill on my part. I assure you, I will not extend such a thing to you again, so I suggest you make the most of it. Draw any attention to yourself in front of my guests or the guards, and I swear that I will make you wish you'd never been born." And with that, she returned to her party, leaving Marcel alone with Malborn.

"What can I get for you?" the Bosmer asked as Marcel approached his counter. Once the Dunmer was within earshot, he continued in a much quieter voice, "You made it in. Good. As soon as you distract the guards, I'll open this door and we can get you on your way. Let's hope we both live through this day."

"I don't suppose I could convince you to get me a drink, while I'm here?" It would have been a pity to go to all the trouble of infiltrating a Thalmor Embassy without at least sampling some of the refreshments.

Malborn looked at him as though he'd grown a second head, but handed him a bottle of brandy nonetheless. "Here you go, sir. I hope you know what you're doing..."

"Just trust me," Marcel replied, taking a long drink of his brandy as he surveyed the room, looking for a potential distraction. A tall, robed fellow who appeared to be drinking himself into a stupor in a corner of the room seemed promising, so the Dunmer decided to focus his attention there.

"So, do you come here often?" he asked, leaning against his victim. Thanks to the reputation he'd managed to put together over the years, there was always a chance that simply talking to a Thalmor agent would frighten them senseless if they recognized him. Granted, it was unlikely that that alone would get enough of a rise out of whoever he was talking to to create a suitable distraction, but it couldn't hurt to try.

The hood slowly turned around to reveal a set of distinctly Altmer features. The potential distraction's golden skin, greenish yellow eyes, and the stark white of his neatly groomed beard, coupled with a set of ornate robes almost identical to Elenwen's, made it clear that he was present as more than just a guard, though the rather impressive pile of empty bottles surrounding him certainly contrasted with his otherwise neat and official appearance. The Altmer managed to make himself look even less official when he choked on his drink upon seeing Marcel standing beside him, effectively covering the front of his robe in wine. "You really did use the invitation..." he sputtered in between gasps for air.

"Pardon?"

"Who do you think forged it for you? I couldn't have made a convincing copy if I didn't know what the genuine article looked like..."

Clearly the bottles weren't just for show if Edwin's contact was willing to discuss forging an invitation so openly in front of so many people. Marcel couldn't help but wonder how boring these parties must have been if they required that much drinking to get through them. Apparently working to bring about the end of the world wasn't nearly as interesting as he'd thought it was. "So, you're the Ondy-something person I'm not supposed to kill... Good for you."

"Yes, I am Ondolemar..."

"Right. That's what I said. It's not my fault you Altmer have names with so many syllables. They all sound the same, too..." It looked like he was going to be able to keep his promise to Edwin after all. If nothing else, the wine Ondolemar had consumed had given him the good sense to introduce himself before things got ugly, and Marcel wasn't about to complain about that. How the two had gotten to know each other in the first place in spite of Edwin's rather strong political views, however, was still quite the mystery. He'd definitely need to look into it further once his work at the Embassy was done. Still, mystery or not, he was glad that he wouldn't have to worry about accidentally murdering an exceedingly valuable resource. So long as said resource was smart enough to stay out of any fighting that broke out, anyway.

Ondolemar sighed. "Do you mean to proceed with your original plan, or did you just come here to to complain about my name?"

"As long as Edwin told you that the original plan was to find out what your employers know about this dragon business, then yes, I'll be proceeding with it. I don't suppose you could just tell me and spare me the trouble of rummaging through Elenwen's documents?"

"I'm afraid not... If I were in possession of any useful information, I would have simply given it to Edwin instead of putting myself at risk by aiding one of our most wanted fugitives in his quest to meddle in our affairs."

"Well, there goes that plan. Would it be too much to ask if you could help me create a bit of a distraction, then?" It was a long shot, but Ondolemar was Marcel's best chance of causing a scene without being blamed for it. No one would guess that he would voluntarily work with a member of the Thalmor, after all. Elenwen would have seen even the thought of it as utterly ridiculous. Which would work in his favor, as he had no desire to try her patience any more than he already had. She was going to be angry enough with him once she found out what he'd been doing at the Embassy already.

"I trust that whatever you have in mind doesn't compromise my position in any way?"

"Well, that depends entirely on how you'd go about creating the distraction. Though I think it would be in both of our best interests if you were to maintain your current position."

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

"Just that it would be useful to have a friend in the Thalmor. It seems as though it would make not waking up dead in a ditch somewhat easier than it is at present," Marcel replied. Really, Ondolemar was wound more tightly than Edwin...

"You're... not at all like your file led me to believe."

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure of that... I'm not nearly as pleasant with genuine Thalmor agents. Though with any luck, I shouldn't have to show that to you firsthand."

"I suppose I could create a distraction for you... Just don't give me cause to regret this later."

"Excellent," the Dunmer replied, placing a hand on Ondolemar's shoulder. "I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

"Don't count on it," the Altmer replied, shrugging Marcel's hand off as he crossed the room with a series of long, graceful strides and immediately started an argument with a considerably inebriated Redguard.

Much as he would have enjoyed staying and watching the ensuing spectacle, Marcel had business to attend to, and instead followed Malborn into the Embassy's kitchen before anyone had a chance to wonder what he was doing.

Other than a slight incident with a Khajiit cook, Malborn was able to lead Marcel to the chest containing his belongings without alerting anyone important to their presence. After that, the Dunmer was left on his own to do what he did best. It was about time he started inconveniencing the Thalmor again. It simply wouldn't do for him to get out of practice, after all.

For such a large building, the Thalmor Embassy was patrolled by surprisingly few guards, all of which Marcel managed to evade or quietly dispose of without raising an alarm. After exploring all the rooms in the structure that the party was being held in, however, the Dunmer had nothing to show for his efforts but a few pilfered luxury items and a lovely new sword courtesy of a tragically short-lived guard.

Crossing the courtyard between the Embassy's main building and the smaller structure behind it proved to be a more difficult task, but he managed to kill or incapacitate its occupants without too much noise. He had received a nasty shock from a conjured Storm Atronach, however, and he was well aware that he wouldn't have much time until someone noticed all the corpses he'd left behind. Fortunately, the second building's occupants hadn't noticed the commotion outside their door, sparing him the trouble of facing another direct confrontation. After he'd entered, an argument broke out between a Thalmor interrogator and his informant, resulting in the latter attempting to leave. He had a run-in with Marcel's dagger before he could reach the door, and once his body was tucked behind a potted plant the Dunmer was able to pick off his employer with a well-placed arrow.

After that, Marcel found what he was looking for-or rather, confirmed its absence by failing to find it-in an assortment of dossiers kept in a small office and a chest in the dungeon it led to. His adventure didn't end there, however, as at almost the exact moment he'd finished reading that the Blades' former loremaster, Esbern, was both alive and a potential source of information about the return of the dragons, a pair of Thalmor soldiers entered, dragging Malborn with them. Clearly his absence had been noticed far earlier than he'd planned...

It soon became clear that they would kill the Bosmer without his intervention and, while he may not have been the most pleasant person, the Dunmer just couldn't stand by and watch that happen. Once one soldier had been disposed of, collapsing to the ground with an arrow through his neck, the other was infinitely more interested in finding Marcel then killing Malborn, which provided the Bosmer with ample opportunity to stab her in the back.

With the help of a thief Marcel had liberated from an interrogation cell, they managed to escape the Embassy through a trapdoor generally used for disposing of corpses. Said trapdoor led to a cave that, thanks to the steady supply of dead torture victims, had become home to a large troll. The three of them somehow managed to managed to make it out of the ordeal alive, though Marcel was concerned about a nasty bite he'd received on his right arm while slitting the creature's throat. He'd definitely be needing a potion of cure disease once he made it back to Cosnach and Edwin. Still, the night had been a success overall, and he was looking forward to meeting up with his companions after parting ways with his fellow Embassy escapees and setting out in the general direction of Solitude.


	13. Questioning Beliefs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was playing Skyrim the other day I realized that there's a partially buried skeleton outside almost every room in the Warrens. Which, in my opinion, is way too many for it to have been an accident. I'm pretty sure there are full Dwemer cities that contain fewer corpses than that. Anyway, that little discovery led to me doing a bit of guess-work as to how that happened and, as such, this chapter contains a bit of speculation and head-canon on my part in regards to how corpses are disposed of in Markarth. And that is your bit of random Skyrim trivia for the day. Now you know. I hope you enjoy the chapter and, as always, I'd love to hear any feedback you may have for me!

Edwin was awakened just before dawn by the sound of a door opening and something heavy being dropped on the floor. He sat up in his bed, eyes squinting in the dim light as he tried to identify the intruder's silhouette, only to be momentarily blinded when the candles on the table across the room were lit, the sudden brightness blocking his view even further.

"Sorry about that," Marcel's voice murmured, the Dunmer himself coming into focus a moment later. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's all right. I'm a light sleeper."

"Well, that makes one of you," Marcel said, seating himself across the small, cramped room on Cosnach's bed. The Breton was still fast asleep, an occasional snore cutting through the silence surrounding them.

"You can't be a light sleeper if you live in the Warrens; you'd spend your whole life awake." Edwin shuddered at the memory at some of the noises he'd heard in his few, brief visits to the skeever-infested, half-collapsed Dwemer ruin that housed Markarth's poorest residents. Most couldn't afford to escape it even in death, and were simply buried somewhere out of the way under one of the piles of dirt that were always pouring in. Sometimes, the skeletal remains of a long-dead resident would find their way to the surface. Less frequently, one of the Warrens' living residents would take the time to bury them again. "He tried to stay awake until you came back, you know. He was still up around midnight, when I went to bed."

"...Really?"

"Yes. He wouldn't let me put the damn light out."

The Dunmer was silent, a small smile flickering across his face with the candlelight as he ran a hand over Cosnach's hair. He paused when he reached one of the man's braids, lingering over the long, interwoven strands of dingy gold.

Edwin shifted uncomfortably, feeling as though he'd witnessed something that hadn't been meant for his -or any- eyes. He'd seen his friend in far more compromising positions over the years, but somehowthis felt a thousand times more private. Desperate for something, anything, to break the silence that was doing its utmost to smother him, he asked, "You're after more than just another roll in the hay from him, aren't you?" before he could think better of it.

"What?" Marcel snatched his hand back as though he'd been burned.

And suddenly, things somehow became even more awkward than they'd been before. "Nothing. Just... nothing. Never mind."

"Edwin, if this is going to make you uncomfortable, then I won't do it. I don't want to cause a rift between the two of you, and if that means I need to keep away from Cosnach, then so be it."

"It doesn't bother me..." Edwin replied, surprised at how easily the words rolled off his tongue. "I like you better than most of the people he's ended up with before, at least."

"...Thank you?"

"Just... be good to him. Break his heart, and I'll break you."

"He really is important to you, isn't he?"

"He's the only family I have left... Or at least, he might as well be."

"It must be nice, having someone you're so close to..."

"I suppose it is," Edwin replied, his face coloring in shame as he continued, "It is... And I didn't even say 'goodbye' before I left to join the Stormcloaks. What kind of friend... what kind of brother am I?" Much as he tried, the Nord just couldn't let go of the fact that it had been Marcel, not him, that had the idea of bringing Cosnach along with them. After less than a day of knowing him, the Dunmer had done more to improve his living situation than Edwin had after being close to him for years. That alone might have been bearable, but Edwin couldn't even be sure that he would have thought to invite Cosnach along on his travels without the Dunmer's intervention. He didn't know what was wrong with him... what had been wrong with him since his mother's disappearance. He'd never doubted himself so much before then, and he'd certainly never have even considered going on such a long, important journey without his closest friend.

"For what it's worth, I really don't think he holds it against you."

"That just makes it worse..." Things would have been so much easier if Cosnach had been angry at him, or at least mildly unhappy. He hadn't even brought it up, though, as though it didn't even matter... But that couldn't have been possible. He must have felt something. No one just let something like that go.

"Why were you in such a hurry to run off and join the Stormcloaks in the first place? The rebellion isn't going anywhere fast..."

"My mother disappeared during a Forsworn attack around the same time the rebellion started. I wanted to be closer to... to Head-Smasher after that, and he said that if I joined the Stormcloaks it would make up for all the times I'd let him down before... He said I'd be a true son of Skyrim, and have his approval. I know it was wrong of me to just run off without telling anyone, but I had to go. I needed to feel like I belonged somewhere..."

"I know. Everyone does. You didn't do anything wrong, Edwin."

"How can you say that? Of course I did!"

Marcel sighed. "Everyone does things they aren't proud of, Edwin. What matters is that you learn from your mistakes, and don't repeat them."

"How is that supposed to fix what I did?"

"It isn't. That's what apologizing is for."

"But..."

"But what?"

"It's shameful... Admitting your weaknesses makes you less of a man."

"Then don't apologize," Marcel replied, lazily shrugging his shoulders. "I don't see how admitting you were wrong makes you any less of a man, though. If anything, I'd say it takes more strength to acknowledge your faults than it does to ignore them."

"You wouldn't understand."

"Because I'm not from Skyrim? And don't understand honor the way you Nords do?"

"Yes! I-I mean, no, I mean... I don't know." Gods, how was everyone else so damn confident? Why did he have to be the only one who didn't know what he was doing? He'd been told it was a sign or weakness his whole life, but maybe Marcel was right... Maybe apologizing wasn't always wrong. Even if it was, he doubted it could be worse than feeling guilty for the rest of his life. Unless Cosnach didn't forgive him. He didn't know what he'd do then. Or if he wanted to take that risk.

"Edwin?" the Dunmer asked, snapping him back to the present.

"What?"

"...I know the Stormcloak thing didn't work out the way you wanted it to, and I'm sorry about that. I just wanted you to know that you're always welcome with me. Not that that means much; I'm not welcome just about everywhere nowadays."

"...Thanks." Whatever else he may have been, at least Marcel wasn't judgmental.

Marcel yawned. "Anyway, I'd like to get some sleep, if you don't mind." He stood, and set about undoing the various straps and buckles holding his leather armor on. His shirt seemed to get stuck about halfway down his right arm, however, and he let out a pained hiss as he tore it the rest of the way off.

"What happened to you?"

"I got bitten by a troll," the Dunmer replied, dragging himself to the washbasin in a corner of the room and gingerly rinsing out the wound.

"There was a troll in the Thalmor Embassy?"

"Technically it was under the Thalmor Embassy. I had to escape through their corpse disposal facilities."

"You managed to kill a troll by yourself?" Edwin asked, looking at Marcel with a newfound sense of respect. Bringing down something that dangerous was no small feat.

"More or less. Delphine's contact was a nice distraction, though. Could you toss me a bandage?"

After a moment of rummaging through his pack, Edwin located a roll of bandages and tossed it to the Dunmer. "Lucky. I wish I had a scar from something like that."

"Really? You're welcome to some of mine, if you want them," Marcel replied, gesturing to the numerous marks scattered across his torso as he bandaged his injured arm. "The bite marks could have been yours if you'd gone to that party yourself, you know."

"I would have if it were possible..." Edwin certainly wasn't proud of sitting in an inn like a milk drinker while one of his friends went on a dangerous mission, but there had been no better way of doing things.

"I know. I promise I don't hold it against you. Though I don't suppose you'd like to explain why it is you couldn't go yourself, now?"

"I... I can't." Edwin had talked enough about himself for one night. He had no desire to make a fuss over his parentage. Not while he was still struggling to come to terms with it himself.

"Fair enough." Having finished bandaging his arm, the Dunmer turned his attention to washing the dirt and blood off the rest of himself.

"Did the Thalmor know anything about the dragons?"

"No. They're every bit as clueless as we are."

"So it was all for naught, then..."

"Not entirely. I did turn up some information on someone that might know what's going on. If we can track him down before the Thalmor do."

"I suppose we're headed to Riverwood next, then."

"That we are. Someone needs to tell Delphine 'I told you so'."

"At least we got something out of it..."

"I know. I'll be in a better mood about all this in the morning, I promise... Well, later today, really," Marcel said, drying himself off and putting out the candles before slipping into bed next to Cosnach. "I hope you weren't planning on an early start."

"No. I think we could all do with a bit more sleep," Edwin replied, wrapping his own blanket around himself again. He still may not have been entirely sure if he approved of Marcel and Cosnach being together, but he definitely approved of not having to share his bed with the Dunmer while it lasted. It had always resulted in him feeling entirely too warm for his liking.

After a few hours that everyone felt passed entirely too quickly, their entire party was awake and on their way to Riverwood. Their late start coupled with the considerable distance between the two settlements made it necessary for them to stop for the night on the road, and Edwin found himself alone with Cosnach while Marcel went in search of firewood. A part of him wondered if the Dunmer had done that on purpose, much as he doubted that anyone would put any sort of thought and planning into giving him a chance to apologize for his actions. Not that he was at all certain he needed to, or had any plans to do so. Still, he supposed it might have been worth a try... Even if it went badly, at least there was no one around to witness it and mock him for his failure. Except for his horse, though he liked to think it wouldn't think any less of him for it.

"Are you all right, Ed?" Cosnach asked, his brow knitted in concern. "You've been starin' at your feet for a while now..."

"I'm fine. Just thinking about things."

"If you're sure... You've been awful quiet today, though."

"I have?" Cosnach had always been too good at reading him... Usually it wasn't a problem, but in his current situation it was making everything much more complicated.

"Yeah."

Well, if he was going to apologize, he doubted he'd get a better opportunity. "Listen, when I left to join the Stormcloaks-"

"If you're goin' back there, I'm not coming with you, Ed. I don't like the way they treat everyone who isn't a Nord, and they wouldn't want a Breton joining up with 'em, anyway."

"That's not what I wanted to talk about."

"Oh. Sorry about that."

"I'm... sorry, too. About leaving without telling you or saying 'goodbye', I mean. I shouldn't have just left you on your own like that."

"That's what you were so worried about?"

"Yes."

"It's all right, Edwin. You've got nothing to be sorry about," Cosnach said, tugging at his ponytail. "I'm just happy you decided to come back. I missed ya."

"I missed you too, Coz," Edwin replied, stunned and relieved that things had gone so well. Maybe apologizing wasn't such a bad thing, after all...

The rest of their journey to Riverwood seemed infinitely more pleasant, as though some great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and Edwin found himself almost enjoying their second day of travel. Even if he had made himself appear weak and unmanly, he didn't care. He'd felt better than he had for months, and that was what really mattered.

When they reached the Sleeping Giant inn, Delphine ushered them all into her secret room and, once the false panel of her wardrobe had been safely secured behind them, she turned to Marcel and said, "You made it out alive, at least, though we all probably have the Thalmor's full attention now. Did you learn anything useful?"

"Well, we can be sure that the Thalmor don't know anything about this dragon business now, if that helps," the Dunmer replied.

"Really? That seems hard to believe. You're sure about that?"

"Why did you let me go in Edwin's place if you weren't going to believe me? We could have saved a lot of time and effort if you'd just gone yourself..."

"You're right, you're right. I just... I was sure it must have been them." Delphine shook her head, as though she still hadn't fully accepted it. "If not the Thalmor, who? Or... what?"

"They may not know anything themselves, but they did have information on someone who might," Marcel said, removing a stack of thin, leather-bound books from his pack and placing them on the table in the center of the room. "I also took the liberty of 'borrowing' their files on us. It should make our lives a bit easier until they can get them replaced, at least."

"Who do they think knows what's going on, then?"

"Are you familiar with a man named Esbern?"

"Esbern? He's alive? I thought the Thalmor must have got him years ago. That crazy old man... Figures the Thalmor would be on his trail, though, if they were trying to find out what's going on with the dragons."

"So their file file on him wasn't lying, then?"

"Of course it wasn't. Esbern was one of the Blades archivists, back before the Thalmor smashed us during the Great War. He knew everything about the ancient dragonlore of the Blades. Obsessed with it, really. Nobody paid much attention back then. I guess he wasn't as crazy as we all thought. If we're going to have any hope of putting a stop to this dragon problem, we've got to find Esbern before the Thalmor do. He'll know how to stop them if anybody does. Do they know where he is?"

"They seem to think he's hiding out somewhere in Riften."

"Riften, eh? Probably down in the Ratway, then. It's where I'd go," Delphine said, turning her attention to Edwin. "You'd better get to Riften. Talk to Brynjolf. He's... well-connected. A good starting point at least."

"Won't you be coming with us?" Edwin asked, still trying to make sense of all that he'd heard. "You're the only one here who knows him; how do we know he'd trust us if we did find him?"

"No. It's still too dangerous for me to announce my presence here," Delphine replied. "When you find Esbern, just ask him where he was on the 30th of Frostfall. He'll know what it means, and that you're not an enemy."

"All right, then. I suppose we'll be going." He'd have liked to have her with them, but Edwin doubted he'd be able to change Delphine's mind. He just hoped they wouldn't run into any Thalmor agents on their way to Esbern. The last thing he needed was one of them paying too much attention to him.

"Best of luck to you, Dragonborn. You'll need it."


	14. Everyone in Markarth's Tried It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have gotten hilariously behind on updating this story on this site again, and anyone who's reading it here has my sincerest apologies for my oversight. Enjoy getting five chapters posted at once as a consolation prize, I guess?

As he dropped to the snowy ground, watching Cosnach's mace sail through the air that his torso had previously occupied, Marcel was uncomfortably reminded of his first adventure with Edwin. Granted, they'd sent the Nord to Riften ahead of them in the hopes that he could look for Esbern without attracting the attention of any Thalmor agents operating within the city, so at least the Dunmer only had to worry about one person accidentally bludgeoning him to death, but that was still one too many for his liking. He watched from his relatively safe, if unpleasantly cold and damp, vantage point as Cosnach finished off the last remaining bandit outside Radlbthar, the Dwemer ruin Alain Dufont had holed himself up in.

"Sorry!" the Breton called out, trotting back to where he'd left Marcel and pulling him to his feet.

"It's all right," Marcel replied, brushing the snow off his armor. He'd just have to remember to stay out of Cosnach's range as much as possible once they were inside the ruin. Though with any luck, that wouldn't be necessary. While the ruin had been impossible to sneak up on from the outside, all its guards were now dead, and none had bothered to warn their companions hiding inside it. As long as he moved quietly, there was no reason Dufont or any of his men needed to know he was there until it was far too late. For them, anyway. Maybe he'd just ask Cosnach to guard the door for him, in case any bandits had escaped their notice and returned home unexpectedly... It would keep both of them as safe as possible, really. And there certainly was something to be said for having someone around to watch his back.

"So, do you want to go in now?" the Breton asked, putting an end to Marcel's planning.

"Yes. It's freezing out here..." How Cosnach was capable of withstanding the frigid temperature of the wilds surrounding Windhelm without a proper shirt, the Dunmer would never know.

Raldbthar's main entrance had, in a spectacular oversight on Dufont's part, been left unguarded and unlocked. The man was either excessively confident in the skill of his guards, or simply couldn't fathom that someone might want him dead. The fact that the moderately loud thud of the door closing behind he and Cosnach once they were inside failed to wake the sleeping bandit who appeared to have been in charge of watching the ruin's entrance seemed to suggest the former.

The bandit didn't wake up until Marcel had run his dagger across his throat, at which point it was too late for him to do much of anything outside of bleeding out onto his bedroll. After searching the chamber to ensure that there weren't any other bandits likely to pose an immediate threat, the Dunmer arranged the guard's corpse so that he appeared to be sleeping in a position that covered most of his blood. It simply wouldn't do to be discovered before he could find Dufont because he'd been careless in taking care of a corpse, after all.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" Cosnach asked.

"Yes... Is that going to be a problem?" Marcel certainly hoped that the Breton didn't share Edwin's dislike of all things stealthy and subtle, though he supposed it might have been a good idea to clarify that before murdering a bandit in his sleep.

"Nah. I was just curious, is all. What were you doing before you started following Edwin around?"

"It's a bit of a long story... Not that I'm trying to avoid the question; I'd just prefer to discuss it when we're not standing in the middle of a bandit hideout."

"That's fine. I can wait."

"Thank you. Now, if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to keep Alain Dufont, the man leading these bandits, from realizing we're here until he absolutely has to. Will you watch the door while I go on ahead and see what we're up against?"

"I guess so, if that's what you think is best..."

"Really?" That had gone better than expected. Over the course of their time together, short as it had been, Cosnach had proven himself to be entirely unlike the Dunmer had assumed he would be. The Breton was surprisingly laid-back and easy-going, all things considered, and if he hadn't experienced it first-hand and completely sober, Marcel would have wondered whether the brawl that had started this whole affair had actually happened.

"Yeah. ...How am I supposed to know if you need my help, though?"

"If you hear any loud noises, assume something went wrong."

"Works for me."

"I'd best be going, then..." Marcel paused for a moment, wanting nothing more than to reach out and do... something to the man, but for the life of him he couldn't think of what, if anything, was at all appropriate for their present situation. It had been almost a century since he'd even attempted anything like this, and he'd clearly lost his touch at anything that wasn't sexual in nature. He found himself frozen in place, a hand halfway raised as his eyes locked with the Breton's for a painfully long, awkward moment.

He was heartbeats away from running screaming into the night when Cosnach put a merciful end to his pathetic failed attempt at a display of affection, gently reaching up and guiding the Dunmer's head downward for a brief kiss. Marcel lost no time in finding his way deeper into the ruin, hoping the blush that had insidiously spread across his face hadn't been obvious in the dim lighting. The last thing he needed was to look like some simpering little schoolgirl.

Killing all of the bandits patrolling that particular section of the ruin probably hadn't been entirely necessary, but he felt much more like himself once he'd accomplished it. After a brief moment of deliberation, he decided to see if he could handle the large, central room that Dufont seemed to have holed himself up in on his own, as well. It wasn't that he lacked faith in Cosnach's abilities-the man had proven himself well enough on the first bandits they'd encountered-he just wanted a few more moments to himself.

After passing through the gate that separated the central chamber from the rest of the ruin, he found himself on a ledge overlooking a campfire surrounded by three men. One was dressed in fine clothing while the others wore weathered armor, clearly distinguishing himself as the man most likely to be the Dunmer's target. Whether his assumption was correct or not, however, Marcel was still going to need to dispose of all three, and he had little to no chance of picking one of them off without immediately alerting the other two to his presence. A closer inspection of the ledge itself, however, presented a rather unique potential solution to this dilemma.

A pair of Dwemer ballistae, each fully loaded and presumably in working condition, were positioned in such a way that each was almost perfectly aimed at the men sitting around the fire in the chamber's center, and it would have been a shame to let such an opportunity go to waste. It would have taken a miracle to actually kill all three bandits with one, but he was relatively certain that he could at least incapacitate one or two with it, and any who weren't directly affected by it were likely to at least be stunned by the sudden noise and impact. As long as Marcel kept his bow out while he pulled the lever that he hoped controlled the ballistae, he had no doubt in his ability to pick off any survivors before they had a chance to go looking for what had set it off.

If he'd spent more time thinking his actions over, or been in a less flustered state of mind, perhaps he would have acted differently. As neither of those conditions applied to him at present, however, the Dunmer threw caution to the wind, crept out onto the ledge, and pulled the lever of the ballista closest to him. The spear-like bolts it held sailed out of their holes without incident, and created a satisfying booming thud as they reached their target. Unfortunately, that target didn't include any of the chamber's other occupants. All of which immediately directed their attention to the source of the commotion and got a perfectly good look at him. It was not his finest moment.

Moments later, he'd tucked himself inside the doorway he'd entered through, his bow at the ready as he waited for whichever bandit decided to attack him first. It wasn't an ideal situation, but he'd been in worse, and as long as all three didn't decide to rush him at once, he was fairly certain he'd walk out of it unscathed. What he hadn't expected, however, was to hear a set of heavy footfalls behind him. He whirled around, wondering how he'd managed to miss something so loud, only to find himself aiming an arrow directly at Cosnach. Who seemed to have acquired a heavy iron shield and helmet somewhere along the way.

"Don't shoot!" the Breton said, quickly sidestepping out of his line of fire.

"I wasn't planning on it," Marcel replied, lowering his bow and releasing some of the tension on its string. The last thing he needed was to tire his arm out prematurely by keeping it drawn too long. "Is there a reason you decided to follow me?"

"You said if I heard any loud noises, something went wrong. There was a loud noise, so I figured you'd need my help."

"You heard the ballista, then?"

"Yep."

"Wonderful." There went his last chance of ever living this down. Still, he couldn't deny that having someone with him opened up a whole new world of possible bandit disposal methods. Adventuring with a partner certainly had its perks. "The ballista... didn't work as planned. Now we have three moderately upset bandits in there who are probably heading this way as we speak."

"So, what do you wanna do?"

"Would you be open to rushing them and keeping them distracted long enough for me to get a clear shot or two in?"

"You're sure you won't hit me, instead?" Cosnach asked, eyeing his bow suspiciously.

"I'm sure. I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't trust my aim."

"All right, then. I'm ready when you are."

The ensuing battle was more fun than it had any right to be. Dufont and his men had clearly assumed that Marcel had entered the ruin alone, and were caught completely off guard when Cosnach ran screaming into the chamber. Their surprise enabled the Dunmer to launch an arrow into Dufont's head before any of them had a chance to react, and the remaining two bandits quickly fell to he and the Breton's combined efforts. After stripping every bandit in the ruin of his or her valuables, they made their way back to Windhelm and rented themselves a room Candlehearth Hall.

Marcel found himself thoroughly enjoying the nasty looks he and Cosnach received from the inn's Nordic occupants as they settled in and had a few drinks by the fire. There was just something inherently wonderful in being somewhere he wasn't welcome but couldn't be thrown out of. And, unlike his visit to the Thalmor Embassy, this was about pleasure instead of business. Once they were comfortably warm and slightly inebriated, they found their way to their room.

"Today was a good day," the Dunmer said, kicking off his boots as he seated himself on the edge of the bed.

"You can say that again," Cosnach replied, doing the same before flopping down beside him. After a brief moment of silence, he asked, "Do you wanna talk about what you did before you started followin' Edwin around now?"

"Honestly, I was doing almost the same thing. I spent most of my time either making myself a thorn in the Thalmor's side or running from them. Sometimes I'd do a bit of adventuring on the side to make a little extra coin. There just weren't any dragons involved."

"And that's how you got so good at knifing people in their sleep?"

"Yes. It's generally easier than loudly announcing your presence and trying to stab them in the face afterwards."

"So, you were an assassin?"

"Sometimes. When I needed to be." Marcel wasn't entirely sure that he liked the way their conversation was going, but it was too late to stop it.

"Muiri finally did get in contact with the Dark Brotherhood then, didn't she? Good for her."

"What?"

"Everyone knows she wanted Dufont killed." The Breton shrugged. "I dunno why else you would've gone after him?"

"I don't see why that necessarily means-"

"It's fine if you are. You don't have to lie about it."

"If I am what?"

"In the Dark Brotherhood."

It probably wasn't the best idea to admit to that sort of accusation, but Marcel didn't see much sense in denying it after Cosnach had already accepted him for it, either. "...I am. That doesn't bother you?"

"Nah. I'm pretty sure everyone in Markarth's tried to call 'em at some point. Even I tried it once. They must've known I didn't have the septims to pay for it, though; no one showed up."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I was havin' some trouble with a rent collector..."

"Are you still having trouble? I'm sure I could think of an alternative payment plan..." Marcel pressed himself against the Breton's side, nuzzling at his neck.

"Not anymore; Forsworn got him a couple months ago and no one's hired a new one yet. Though I'm not saying 'no' to that payment plan of yours..." Cosnach wrapped his arms around the Dunmer and pulled him in for a kiss, which led to several more, and though he had no idea exactly how or when he'd managed it, Marcel found himself seated on the man's lap, legs wrapped around his waist.

He knew it was a terrible idea, and it could only end badly for the both of them, but he couldn't deny that he'd gone and made himself feel some level of attachment to the Breton. In the end, he supposed it didn't matter much, anyway. Attached or not, once Cosnach learned more about his... unique lineage, Marcel doubted he'd be able to stop him from running off into the night like all the others had. No matter what else a man was willing to tolerate for a good lay, just about all of them drew the line at fucking a half-Daedra. Apparently they thought he was capable of sucking their souls out through their cocks, or something else equally ridiculous. He'd just enjoy this while it lasted and hope it didn't end too explosively.

Before he could put any more thought into the matter, one of Cosnach's hands found its way to the ridiculously sensitive tip of one of his ears, and effectively shut off the reasonable part of his mind for the rest of the night. He'd had far more... pressing matters to attend to, after all.


	15. Making an Investment

Leaving Candlehearth Hall the next morning was difficult. The icy stares of its Nord patrons paled in comparison to the bone-chilling winds outside, and the frost-slicked cobblestones of Windhelm's streets promised an unpleasant start to the journey ahead of them. Still, Edwin was waiting for them, and neither Marcel nor Cosnach liked the thought of leaving him alone for too long. Marcel supposed the thrill of irritating Windhelm's less tolerant residents would've gotten old soon, anyway.

On their way out of the city, they stopped by the market to sell off a few valuables they'd taken off Dufont and his men. Riften might have been a larger trade center than Windhelm, but the bandits a heavy pack was likely to attract made finding a buyer in Windhelm the safer and, as far as Marcel was concerned, smarter option. A few extra septims weren't worth dying over. Which, as it happened, was the same reasoning behind him deciding to leave Nilsine Shatter-Shield alive. Murdering a wealthy family's last remaining child would ruffle more feathers than it was worth, and Muiri seemed like the kind of woman who would appreciate a chance to reconcile with Nilsine after she'd had enough time to cool down more than having the extra part of her contract fulfilled. She may have given him the poison for it, but she hadn't made the request with the same conviction she'd used to order Dufont's death.

The Dunmer found himself wondering whether Cosnach agreed with his decision to sell off their extra goods in Windhelm, however, when the Breton showed no sign that he intended to sell the heavy iron helmet and shield he'd acquired.

"Are you planning to switch over to heavy armor?" Marcel asked.

"What are you talking about?"

"This," the Dunmer replied, knocking on the side of Cosnach's helmet. "It's probably not a bad idea if you intend to keep using yourself as a human battering ram, but you'll be needing more than just a helmet and shield."

Cosnach shrugged. "It'll have to do for now. Gettin' a decent set of heavy armor ain't cheap. And all the cheap stuff does is weigh you down, so it's not worth botherin' with."

"I could get a decent set of it made for you, if you'd like. It's probably quicker and cheaper than prying something off a dead bandit and getting it repaired and resized." Unless he managed to get access to his accounts back in Cyrodiil, Marcel was far from wealthy, but he saw more than enough value in ensuring that Cosnach was well-protected to justify the expense. As long as the Breton didn't have his heart set on ebony, he could afford it.

Cosnach frowned, an unreadable look in his eyes. "I'm all right. You really don't have to do that."

"I know I don't have to. I just want to make sure you're safe."

"I'm plenty safe with the armor I have. I don't need you to go and buy anything fancier for me."

"I understand that. I'm asking if you want me to. I wouldn't have made the offer if I wasn't willing to fulfill it."

"I don't. Can we talk about something else now?" Cosnach asked, looking anywhere but the Dunmer's eyes. Apparently the cobblestones had grown quite fascinating.

"Why not?" Marcel had grown used to spoiling his lovers over the years. He'd reached a point where he usually enjoyed it, really. To have one who rejected his attempts at doing so was... out of the ordinary, to say the least.

"I just don't, all right? Why is that so hard to understand?"

"I wouldn't have any trouble understanding if you'd explain why you don't want a better set of armor. This isn't about how 'fancy' you are, it's about making sure you don't get yourself killed," Marcel replied, poking at the Breton's exposed chest. "You're a bit too exposed to last long against anyone who knows what they're doing in a fight."

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?" Cosnach glared at him, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

"No, I'm not."

The Breton was silent for a moment, and Marcel was worried they'd be standing in the market all day until he mumbled something, staring at his feet the entire time.

"What?"

Cosnach sighed. "I said I don't wanna be some charity project for you. I've done well enough for myself so far; that's not gonna stop just because I'm an adventurer now."

"You're saying 'no' to a set of real armor... because you're afraid that accepting it would make you a charity project?"

"Yeah..."

Marcel sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't see you as a charity project, Cosnach. I wouldn't be sleeping with you if I did."

"Then why would you just offer to do something like that for me?"

"Because I happen to like you. And I'd prefer not to see you injured while we're working together if there's a way for me to avoid that."

"Oh. I... like you, too."

"Then where's the harm in letting me spoil you a little?" Marcel smiled, placing a hand on the Breton's shoulder.

Cosnach placed his own hand over the Dunmer's, squeezing it lightly. "It'll make everyone else think that's the only reason I'm following you around. I don't want that."

"You know, you're probably the first person I've been with who's worried about that."

"You might wanna raise your standards a bit, then."

Marcel shook his head, then laughed. It came out shorter and harsher than he'd intended, but if the way Cosnach smiled at him was anything to go by, he'd still gotten the point across. It was better than getting all soft and sappy, at least. No one had said anything that nice to him for years, but he didn't need to admit to that. "Maybe I should. Is there really no way I can convince you to let me get a set of armor made for you?"

"I thought you said you'd understand if I explained why I didn't want you to do that." If Cosnach was trying to look serious, the smirk his mouth kept twitching into ruined the effect.

Marcel kissed him. "I do. But does it really matter what everyone else thinks if I know you don't just like me for my septims? You're starting to sound like Edwin."

"Will you at least let me pay you back for it?"

"No. That would defeat the entire purpose of spoiling you."

"Do you have to?"

"Would you feel better if you thought of it as me making an investment in us continuing to work together? Keeping you alive and healthy would be more profitable in the long run than letting you charge into bandit camps unprotected. And if we're going to keep traveling with Edwin, there are bound to be more dragons eventually..."

"I guess that could work."

"I'll be making that investment, then. Once we get to Riften, anyway. I'll be damned if I make a blacksmith who'll call me a 'filthy gray-skin' as soon as my back is turned any richer. My standards aren't that low."

"Sounds good to me."

Marcel felt more relieved than he probably should have when Cosnach gave in. He wasn't quite sure what they had between them, but whatever it was, it was certainly worth exploring further. Which he'd have some difficulty accomplishing if the Breton got himself seriously injured or killed.

After they'd sold the last of their unwanted items and left the city, Cosnach asked, "If gettin' called a 'gray-skin' bothers you that much, how did you end up traveling with Edwin?"

"Well, he was unconscious when I met him, and I didn't want to leave someone that young to get roasted alive by a dragon."

"Thanks for staying with him after he woke up, then. He isn't always so hard to get along with, I swear."

"So, when did all this 'true Nords are Stormcloaks' business start?" Marcel asked. It had to have been a recent development, if Edwin was capable of referring to a Breton as his brother.

"His mother was a city guard. She went missing about a year ago during a Forsworn raid. After that, he ran off to join the Stormcloaks so he could be closer to his father. It made sense, I guess; he was the only real family Ed had left."

"What was he like before that?" It may not have entirely excused Edwin's less-than-pleasant tendencies, but at least the fact that he'd lost his mother so recently made them understandable. If she'd tried to raise her son with a more tolerant worldview than her husband and given Edwin his more admirable qualities, Marcel regretted not having a chance to meet her.

"Better, mostly. He still got in a few fights by insulting the wrong people, though." Cosnach paused, smiling. "That's how I met him."

"I take it you start all your relationships through brawling, then?"

"Not exactly. He managed to start a fight with five people at once when we were both little, and I ended up pulling 'em off him before he got his ass kicked too bad. His mother kinda took me in after that, and we've been friends ever since."

"So his suicidal overconfidence in his abilities isn't a new development."

"Nope. I guess him fighting dragons now kinda makes sense. Ya can't really blame him, though. He doesn't look as big and strong as most people'd expect a Nord to; he had to make up for that lack of muscle somehow."

"Was it a bad idea to let him go to Riften on his own?" The last thing Marcel needed was to have to drag Edwin out of trouble when he and Cosnach got to Riften. Trouble meant causing a scene, and causing a scene meant alerting every Thalmor agent in the city to his presence there. Any advantage they'd gained by sending Edwin in on his own would be lost.

"I'm sure he's fine. He hasn't been there long enough to get to know anyone well enough to pick a fight with 'em."


	16. Great Expectations

Either the guards on duty at Riften's gate were the same ones that Marcel had encountered on his first visit to the city or they'd done away with their 'visitor's tax' scheme, and he and Cosnach made it into the city without incident. The sun was already low in the sky, but they made it to the city's blacksmith before he closed up shop for the day, and got Cosnach fitted for a set of armor. The blacksmith seemed thrilled at the prospect of having a chance to work with heavy armor, and assured them he could have a set ready within the next day or two. It would be a nice change of pace from repairing the city guards' weapons and armor, apparently.

Their next stop was the Bee and Barb, where they found Edwin sitting alone in a corner, glaring at the inn's other patrons. The Dunmer could have sworn he saw the Nord's face crack into a smile when he saw them, but it was gone almost before it had a chance to fully form. Watching Edwin and Cosnach share a warm, familial one-armed embrace upon being reunited was almost heartwarming enough to rid Marcel of the chill in his bones he'd acquired after trudging through Windhelm's perpetual blizzard. Almost. Sentiment was all good and well, but it didn't hold a candle to a seat by a well-tended fire and a warm body to curl up next to.

The warm feeling continued until Edwin took a step away from Cosnach and said, "What are you doing with the helmet and shield? You could've at least found something that covers that mead gut of yours," poking at the Breton's stomach for emphasis.

Cosnach sighed and shook his head, a rueful smile on his face. "It's good to see you, too, Ed. And I don't have a mead gut."

"It's squishy; it's a mead gut."

"People are supposed to have a bit of squish to 'em, Ed. We can't all have that girlish figure of yours."

"Marcel isn't squishy," Edwin replied, smiling as he began poking at Cosnach again.

The Breton twisted away from him, taking a few steps backward toward Marcel. "We can't all have his figure, either."

"Are you saying I'm not sufficiently squishy, then?" Marcel asked, stifling a laugh at his lover's predicament. Cosnach and Edwin really were like siblings.

Cosnach turned to face the Dunmer. "Of course not; you're plenty good-lookin' just the way you are," he said, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head. "You just… don't have a lot of weight on ya."

Marcel smiled. It wasn't an inaccurate statement, he supposed, and at least the sentiment behind it was genuine. Any extra bulk would've just slowed him down and restricted his movement, anyway. "And I'm quite fond of that squish of yours," he said, wrapping an arm around the Breton's waist. Which really wasn't half as squishy as Edwin made it out to be, but that was beside the point. "You wouldn't be half as warm without it."

Edwin rolled his eyes. "Can't you two get a room for that?"

Marcel just pulled Cosnach closer to him, nuzzling at his neck as he said, "Really, Edwin, I haven't even started taking his armor off yet. I'm being a perfect gentleman."

"Can you get yourselves a room before you stop being a perfect gentleman, then?" Edwin asked. "I thought you were here to help me, not make kissy faces at each other."

"Fair enough." The Dunmer sighed, releasing Cosnach. There wasn't any sense in causing any more of a scene just for the sake of annoying Edwin. If he was going to end up attracting the attention of any Thalmor agents lurking in Riften, he'd prefer to do it for a more dignified reason.

The Breton squeezed his hand and gave him a rueful grin before joining Edwin in taking a seat at the table the Nord had previously occupied. Marcel pulled a chair of his own up to the table and sat down between them, leaning over the table as he asked, "So, since this visit is for business only, have you found our dragon expert yet?"

"No," Edwin replied, glaring at a red-haired Nord on the other side of the room. Marcel didn't see anything outwardly remarkable about the man, but he'd clearly done something to set Edwin off.

"Have you found anything at all?"

"Not exactly…"

Marcel sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but he'd hoped that Edwin would have at least uncovered Esbern's location. Though if Esbern had succeeded at keeping his presence in Riften a secret from most of its residents, at least they still had a good chance of locating him before the Thalmor did. If the state of the city guard was anything to go by, criminals probably made up more than a small portion of Riften's residents, and they'd be more eager to talk to an honest sort like Edwin and Cosnach, or an admittedly shady-looking Dunmer like himself, than some Altmer in a uniform on principle. They'd just have to give it another try in the morning. After he'd made sure Edwin and Cosnach took everything valuable out of their pockets, of course. "What have you tried so far? This will go faster if we don't try something that's already failed."

"Well, I talked to Brynjolf, and he said he wouldn't tell me where Esbern was unless I helped him get an innocent man in jail, so I told him to shove off and came here to wait for you."

"Did you tell him that Delphine sent you?"

"Yes."

"And that you're Dragonborn? And we have no way of permanently killing dragons without you?"

"Yes."

"That is one determined thief…" Marcel would have been impressed with the man's tenacity if it hadn't been so inconvenient. Still, if this Brynjolf knew where to find Esbern, at least he had a faster way to find the man than asking around the city and hoping he got lucky. He'd just have to be more… persuasive than Edwin had been. "Do you know where I can find him?"

"He's over there," Edwin said, gesturing to the red-haired Nord he'd been glaring at earlier.

"I'll have to go and have a word with him, then." Marcel stood, wound his way through the tables housing the inn's other patrons, and claimed the seat opposite Brynjolf at the Nord's table.

"And who might you be, lad?" Brynjolf asked, giving him a cursory, uninterested glance before returning to his tankard of mead.

"A man who's looking for information."

"Does that man have a name?"

"Does he have to?"

"Only if he wants something from me."

"…Marcel."

"That's better," Brynjolf said, smiling as he set down his tankard of mead, giving the Dunmer his full attention. "So, what is it you're looking for information on? You can call me Brynjolf, though I'm sure your sulky friend over there told you that already."

"I'm looking for an old man hiding out somewhere in this city of yours. Know anyone who fits that description?"

"I might know something about your man. What's he worth to you? I'm sure your friend let you know I won't be telling you for free."

Marcel inwardly cringed. If Brynjolf remembered his interaction with Edwin, and had picked up on them being companions, he doubted he'd be able to negotiate much of a better deal for himself. Hopefully the Nord still had jobs he needed done. The Dunmer leaned forward across the table. Brynjolf didn't so much as flinch; clearly, he was no stranger to working outside the law with potentially dangerous people. It was a pity they were at odds with each other. That sort of outlook would have made him quite the asset. "I'm certain we can work something out. We're both reasonable men, aren't we?"

"Of course we are, lad. I'm glad you see things my way."

"You do realize that I'm probably old enough to be your grandfather several times over?"

"Of course. I meant no disrespect, lad."

Marcel bit his tongue and paused before responding. The last thing he needed to do was let Brynjolf know he'd hit a nerve. Showing weakness during a negotiation meant giving his opponent an advantage over him, and he was in a bad enough position already. "So, I take it you want me to do the job Edwin turned down? Just tell me what I'm doing, and I'll have it done by this time tomorrow."

"Oh, no. From him, a little thieving job is the best I could have hoped for. But you look like a man more… experienced in the ways of this world of ours. I'd be a fool to let you off with something so easy."

"And what makes you think I'm so accomplished at… whatever it is you're talking about? I'm as honest and law-abiding man as any you'll meet."

"That's not what my men working the city gates had to say."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Strange… They complained about a red-haired Dunmer with a nice set of scars on his face refusing to pay their visitor's tax a while back… Coincidentally, on the same night that an innocent old woman was murdered in our orphanage. I'd say that description fits you quite nicely, wouldn't you?"

Shit. There went his chances of making it in and out of the city unrecognized. Though he supposed that he'd prefer a fellow criminal recognizing him to getting noticed by a Thalmor agent. He just hoped Brynjolf wouldn't get carried away when naming his price. "What do you want from me, then?"

Brynjolf laughed. "Don't look so put out, lad. I think I have an arrangement that'll help us both. You aren't the only one looking for this old man of yours, and the other people after him have been stirring up a fair bit of trouble for me and my associates. Hassling us in the market, turning our base of operations upside down whenever the mood strikes them… It's bad for business."

"You're acquainted with the Thalmor, then. Charming, aren't they?"

Brynjolf grimaced and took another swig of his mead. "That's one way of putting it. At this point, I'd rather give our fugitive to you and your friend on principle alone. The coin he's giving us to keep mum isn't worth the trouble. That being said, I have no guarantee they'll leave us alone once he's gone, and we can't operate with the bastards breathing down our necks."

"If you're saying I need to kill every Thalmor in Skyrim for you, I think you'd be better suited by hiring an army."

"Easy there, lad. All I want is for you to send a message. There's a Khajiit wench that's been following me around for the last week, probably thinks she's too subtle for me to notice. Still, she's a feisty one. The last two men I sent after her never came back. I'm hoping you'll have a bit more luck."

"So, you want me to get rid of your shadow for you?" Maybe things would work out in his favor, after all. Killing Thalmor agents was his specialty; under different circumstances, he'd probably have gotten rid of the Khajiit following Brynjolf for free.

"Now you're catching on. I don't care how it's done, just so long as she gets found and any of her friends in the city hear about it." The Nord pushed a folded piece of paper across the table. "Put this on her body somewhere. It'll make it clear who had it done, and that my associates and I aren't to be trifled with. Sound good to you?"

"I think I can manage," Marcel replied, pocketing the slip of paper.

"Excellent. I'll be waiting for you in the marketplace. Let me know when it's done, and I'll tell you where to find your man."

"She'll be gone before you know it." Marcel made his way back to Edwin and Cosnach, who were involved in a discussion about a fish they'd caught as children to the point that neither noticed his return. He saw no need to interrupt, content to simply observe the closest thing he'd seen to a familial interaction in years for the time being. He had a busy day waiting for him tomorrow; he'd earned a few moments of rest.


	17. Fighting Words

Marcel had an easier time disposing of the Khajiit than he'd anticipated. She hadn't been hard to find, largely due to the fact that she was the only Khajiit in the city, and she hadn't seemed to have any guards with her. All he'd needed to do was wait for her to wander down an empty alleyway, sneak up behind her, and slit her throat before she had a chance to cry out. She'd dug her claws fairly deep into his forearm as she bled out, but they slid out without any trouble once they'd gone limp. Once he'd taken a look at it to make sure it didn't incriminate him or Edwin in any way, he pinned Brynjolf's scrap of paper to her chest with her own dagger, and wandered out into Riften's streets without anyone noticing a thing. If he hadn't known better, he'd have assumed that the Thalmor wanted their agent to get herself killed. Though, to their credit, she had been slightly more subtle than an Altmer in a full uniform. With next to no one outside the Dominion mad enough to join their cause, he supposed they'd needed to take what they could get when it came to agents. Beggars couldn't be choosers, after all. Either way, the task had been disappointingly anticlimactic. Whoever Brynjolf had sent after her before, he felt safe assuming that they weren't trained killers.

After reporting back to Brynjolf, and learning that Esbern had been hiding out in Riften's ratway, Marcel went in search of Edwin and Cosnach. He found them in the lake surrounding the city, both wearing nothing but their smallclothes, trying to wrestle a large fish onto the shore. The fish managed to splash its way free while they were distracted by his arrival, and upon seeing Edwin out of his armor and bulky, shapeless clothing for the first time, the Dunmer couldn't help but notice that he really did have a remarkably slight build for a Nord. Especially one of his height and weapon preference. Amber wasn't exactly a common eye color for Nords, either. If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn that the boy had elf blood somewhere in his line. Then again, he supposed stranger things had happened… The real question was: did Edwin know? It would have gone a long way toward explaining his bizarre obsession with all things Nordic, if that was the case. He didn't seem like the type to risk anyone doubting his loyalty over a bit of mixed ancestry, after all. Maybe Edwin was onto something with his outlook; Marcel had dealt with his share of trouble over his own heritage in his time.

After seeing Edwin in close proximity to several Thalmor, all of which undoubtedly came from impossibly pure Altmer bloodlines, in their quest to extricate Esbern from his hiding place, Marcel's suspicions seemed to be confirmed. If anything, Edwin looked more like a full half-breed than the result of a few long-suppressed traits deciding to make an appearance. And Altmer did seem to be the most likely prospect for his other half. He was too damned tall for it to be anything else. It would certainly explain the charming little points on his ears, as well. They weren't prominent enough to notice without looking for them, and if he'd seen them on a Breton he wouldn't have batted an eye, but ear points that distinctive just didn't happen on Nords. Still, that was hardly the time to be wondering over Edwin's parentage. He'd have more than enough time to attend to it after they'd rid themselves of the Thalmor trying to reach Esbern before they did.

They managed to find Esbern without too much difficulty, and in spite of his advanced age, he proved to be quite the asset in disposing of the Thalmor that had been sent in pursuit of him. With that taken care of, they'd stopped to pick up Cosnach's armor, and left Riften before word of all that had transpired had a chance to reach the Thalmor Embassy. After meeting up with Delphine in Riverwood, it seemed that their best course of action was to gain entrance to Sky Haven Temple, an ancient Blade fortress located near Markarth. Supposedly, it was home to Alduin's wall, a stone carving that held the only reliable source of knowledge on what exactly was happening to the world, and how they could stop it.

Their task had seemed simple enough, and they encountered blessedly little trouble on the road, until they reached the location of Sky Haven Temple, and found it occupied by a small army of Forsworn. An entire settlement of them had taken up residence on the temple's doorstep, and the warning shots the Forsworn had fired at their small, ragtag party upon their approach indicated that they were less than friendly. Which had led them to their present task of attempting to figure out the best way to reclaim Sky Haven Temple, and the area surrounding it, from its current residents. They'd set up a temporary headquarters, of sorts, in Edwin's home in Markarth, due to both its proximity to Sky Haven Temple and the fact that, in spite of its considerable Thalmor presence, it was arguably the safest place in Skyrim for someone the Thalmor wanted as badly as Esbern to hide. Whatever Edwin's connection to Ondolemar was, it couldn't have been more convenient.

The small house wasn't particularly well-suited to housing so many people, especially when they wanted to avoid going outside as much as possible, but they'd managed well enough so far. At present, their entire party was gathered around the kitchen table, attempting to decide their next course of action, with Marcel and Cosnach seated on one side, Delphine and Esbern at the other, and Edwin at the table's head. If their chairs hadn't been so mismatched, it would have almost looked official.

"Do we really need to reclaim the temple?" Edwin asked. "There must be some other way to learn more about dragons."

"I'm afraid so," Esbern replied, stroking his beard. Why he bothered with facial hair when the years had left the rest of his head bald, Marcel would never know. It just made it look like the hair on top of his head had migrated to his jaw. Still, if he'd managed to evade the Thalmor for so long, the Dunmer supposed he didn't have much right to judge the man. He was easier to get along with than Delphine, at the very least. "At present, Sky Haven Temple is the only lead we have. And with the dragons returning to Tamriel, time is of the essence. We cannot waste what little we have simply because our path has grown difficult to follow."

"We should talk to the Jarl, see if he'll send a contingent of guards out to help us. These Forsworn are his problem as much as ours. If that doesn't work, I'm sure Edwin and Cosnach could find us a mercenary or two. They know this city," Marcel said, leaning back in his chair. They'd been arguing in circles for what felt like hours; at that point, proper posture required more energy than it was worth."

"No. We can't risk hiring on any extra help; if they know the location of Sky Haven Temple, they could sell us out to the Thalmor the moment our backs are turned," Delphine replied, still as rigid as ever."

"It's a good thing the leader of the Thalmor in this city is on our side, then. Even if someone does report us, nothing is going to happen."

"And if they decide to go to the First Emissary when he ignores them? Solitude isn't far from here, and there will be more than a high enough bounty on us to make it worth their time."

"Delphine, this may come as a bit of a shock to you, but very nearly everyone in Tamriel who isn't part of their little Dominion hates the Thalmor with a burning passion. No one's going to help them if they can avoid it."

"I know Markarth. The Bretons here hate their Nord rulers just as much as they hate the Thalmor. I'd have no trouble seeing them target someone as important to Nord culture as the Dragonborn purely out of spite."

"Don't be stupid," Cosnach scoffed, "No one around here's gonna be dumb enough to think they can win anything against the Nords in their own province. And the ones that are that dumb have already run off to join the Forsworn."

"With all due respect, I'd trust those words more if they came from someone who hadn't allied himself so strongly with Markarth's Nord population. Not to mention your connection to a certain Dunmer." Delphine cast a glance at Marcel, her mouth curling into a small frown. "You're hardly a fitting spokesperson for the rest of your people; your experience isn't comparable to theirs."

Cosnach scowled. "Those are fightin' words around here…"

Marcel sighed, and put a hand on his lover's shoulder. Things were going nowhere fast. "Just ignore her; she's paranoid and delusional. We don't need this disagreement to become physical. Our odds of reclaiming Sky Haven Temple are low enough without anyone getting themselves injured fighting each other."

"Really? You're hardly one to talk about our odds of success. If it weren't for your good-for-nothing… whatever he is, the empire would never have crumbled in the first place, and we wouldn't be in this situation!"

"You know what, Cosnach, I've changed my mind. Those are fighting words."

"By the Nine, will you all just stop!" Edwin shouted, the power behind his voice rattling every loose item in the room. "I'm the Dragonborn; shouldn't I get a say in this?"

The room fell silent, until Esbern spoke up once more. "Of course. What would you have us do, Dragonborn?"

"Um," Edwin paused for a moment, as though he was unsure of what he wanted to say, now that he'd been given the opportunity. "Well, there are five of us now, and that's more than any of us usually have to work with, so… I think we can do this on our own. If we make a plan first, I mean. We can do that, right?"

A chorus of assenting nods and murmurs sounded from around the table. Marcel still didn't like their odds, but as long as they didn't charge blindly in, he didn't see any reason it couldn't be done. If Edwin was willing to stop and make a plan, he was willing to hear him out. It would be a nice change from the blind chaos of their usual fights.

"Good. How are we going to do this, then?"

"We should make our move after nightfall. If we're lucky, we can catch them by surprise," Marcel said.

"That's… actually not a bad idea," Delphine replied. "It'll keep them from guessing our exact numbers; if we play our cards right, we might even convince them they're outnumbered. For a while, at least."

Edwin frowned, but sighed and nodded his head in approval. "A sneak attack it is, then. They've shown no honor in stealing someone else's refuge, and attacking its rightful owners without cause. Why should we treat them any better? Is there… anything else we should do?"

"Some information on our opponents would not lead us astray," Esbern replied, "if we have a way of gathering it."

"I have a contact in the Jarl's palace. He should be able to get us something."

"Is he the same person as your Thalmor contact?" Marcel asked.

"Yes…" Edwin replied, giving him a suspicious look. At last something about the Nord was still recognizable. Marcel was beginning to worry he'd become an entirely different person. "Anything that's a threat to Markarth is a threat to them, as well. He would know.

"Of course he would; I just wanted to be sure," the Dunmer replied, holding his hands up. "If you don't mind, I'd like to go and talk to him. I want to know just how much the Thalmor are aware of, as far as Delphine and Esbern are concerned, at the moment. I can ask about our Forsworn camp while we're there. I trust you, Edwin, but you don't have enough experience to ask the right questions, and we can't be sure how he'd react to Delphine or Esbern showing up." It would also give him an opportunity to let Muiri know he'd fulfilled her contract, and get out of the stuffy confines of Edwin's house before the walls started to feel like they were closing in around him, but neither was anything anyone else needed to know about.

"That's fine by me. …Tell him I said 'hello', while you're there, I suppose."

"Will do," Marcel replied, and with that, he made his escape onto the relatively open streets of Markarth.


	18. Memories

Ondolemar's room was remarkably lavish, by Skyrim standards. He'd managed to secure a large, ornate desk, no doubt made from some sort of impossibly rare, expensive variety of wood, as well as a four-poster bed with a small mountain of pillows, clean blankets, and what looked like a proper mattress for himself, while living in a province full of people who hated his kind on principle. If he hadn't known better, Marcel would have taken the Altmer for the ultimate example of self-important Thalmor excess. His dedication to maintaining the illusion of being a perfect little Thalmor puppet was impressive, to say the least. Ondolemar's talents were wasted as a Justiciar; if his superiors had any sense, they'd have employed him as a spy.

Tempted as he was to have a look at the paperwork covering the Altmer's desk, Marcel decided against it. Making any use of the information he found there would establish a link between him and Ondolemar, and lead to quite a messy situation for them both. Instead, the Dunmer kicked off his boots and made himself comfortable on the bed, nestling himself amongst its pillows. If he needed to wait until Ondolemar returned to his room for the night to talk with him, he didn't see any reason why he shouldn't make himself at home in the meantime. It would probably make for a better reaction when the Altmer noticed him, anyway.

When Ondolemar arrived, he did not disappoint. "By the Eight, what are you doing here?" he wheezed, leaning against the door as he clutched at his chest. Marcel could see his chest heaving from across the room.

"Just admiring this lovely bed of yours. I haven't found one so soft since leaving Cyrodiil. Someone's fancy…"

Ondolemar sighed, straightening his posture as he pinched the bridge of his nose as though trying to fend off a headache. "If you are quite finished with being an overly smug ass, would you like to tell me why you are actually here? Preferably before one of my guards notices your presence."

"They aren't likely to check in on you unless you keep making a fuss. Just calm down; if I'd come here with the intent to harm you, you'd be lying in a pool of your own blood by now," Marcel replied, making himself more comfortable in his pillow nest. "And I'm often told that my ass is among my best features. Why shouldn't I play it up?"

"You are… nothing like your file's description of you."

"I thought we established that the last time we talked. Really, what's the point in keeping a file on one of your fugitives if you're going to be honest about him? You'd risk making him dangerously sympathetic, and you can't have that, can you? I thought you superiorly bred mer were supposed to be smarter than that."

"Fair enough. Would I be correct in assuming you came here for a reason, or was interfering in my work reason enough for you?"

"Of course I want something. I just thought I'd have a little fun with you first. But first, I'm curious: what is it that made you turn on your own people? Contacts like you don't come along every day."

"You're sincerely doubting me after my assistance at the Thalmor Embassy? I seem to recall the Nords having a saying about not looking gift horses in their mouths…"

"It's just curiosity. You're free not to answer."

Ondolemar sighed. "And if I choose not to answer, will you leave me in peace?"

"No. I'll just start guessing. Right now. You're having a long-distance affair with Ulfric Stormcloak, aren't you?"

"No. It wasn't anything… quite so dramatic as that." Ondolemar crossed the room, and seated himself at his desk. "Do you really want to know?"

"I'm asking, aren't I?"

"Judging by some of the more… colorful exploits in your file, I'm certain you know enough of the Great War, and the atrocities committed therein, that you require no explanation of it, or its lingering effects on those… lucky," the Altmer grimaced at the word, "enough to survive it. When I enlisted in the Aldmeri Dominion's army, I was young. Still a child, really, who knew nothing of the world beyond his homeland. Why shouldn't I have believed the stories of humans being little better than savage beasts, foolishly worshipping a false god, that the world needed to be purged of? The word, 'genocide', was foreign to my vocabulary."

"If all you got to see of them was the opposite side of the war, I'm surprised your opinion changed," Marcel replied, fighting back a grimace of his own. "We weren't exactly the picture of goodness and nobility, either. I know I wasn't."

"Is this in reference to you flaying half the skin off my commanding officer in the night?"

"Shit, that was your unit? Nasty business, that. I'm sorry you had to see it." The Dunmer shuddered. This was not a conversation he wanted to be having while sober. "Why do you think I stopped halfway through? Ended up puking my guts out behind a bush afterwards, actually. I'm surprised the noise didn't wake anyone. …He was dead before I started, if that's any comfort."

"That is good to know. And I suppose I'm hardly one to complain; his death is what enabled me to rise to my present rank." The corners of Ondolemar's mouth curled into a rueful smile. "Considering his… unique method of execution for our Legion prisoners, I can't say his fate was unearned.

"Assassinated commanding officers aside, as I saw more of the Legion, they grew to seem less like monstrous creatures, and more like the frightened, desperate mer I found myself commanding. I witnessed more than a few corpses clutching at blood-stained sketches of wives, children, husbands… In time, I began to doubt whether they were truly so irredeemable… whether they truly deserved extermination. After I had to execute one of my own soldiers after she was branded a traitor, and could offer no rebuttal to the accusations she made against our cause, her lifeless corpse was all the evidence I needed that I'd chosen the wrong side.

"When the Great War ended, I chose to remain as a Justiciar of the Dominion, to covertly hinder their operations where I could. I couldn't bring myself to live out a peaceful existence in my homeland, facing the adoration of my people every day, knowing what I knew of the outside world. After the Markarth incident, I was offered an assignment here to root out Talos worship, which I accepted. Twenty-four years later, here I remain. Is your curiosity satisfied, now?" Ondolemar sighed, gazing at the surface of its desk as though the grain of its wood contained the secrets of the universe. His features showed a mixture of confused inner turmoil that Marcel could have sworn he'd seen somewhere before. During his first visit to Windhelm, when he and Edwin had parted ways at the city gates. If Ondolemar had a bit more hair, and shaved off his beard, he'd have almost looked like an Altmer version of… Well, there was an interesting thought.

"Just how close a friend were you to Edwin's mother?" Marcel asked.

Ondolemar stiffened, and he snapped his gaze back to the Dunmer. "I fail to see what relevance that has to our present topic of conversation. Or in what way our relationship is any of your business."

"So it is a relationship…"

"I… Yes, it is. Was, most likely, given the Forsworn's usual treatment of their captives, but this is hardly the time or place for such things. We met shortly after I arrived here, and she happened to discover my… lack of commitment to my duties. She was married – not happily, and her husband was rarely home, but still married – and anything beyond a casual acquaintanceship between us put us both at horrible risk, but we let things go farther than we should have nonetheless. A few years later, she became pregnant, and you seem to be aware of the rest. I suppose I should have broken off all contact with her after our son was born, to protect them both, but… love clouds one's judgment, it seems."

"Does Edwin know?"

"Not until recently… after his mother vanished during a Forsworn raid on the city. We felt it was best if, until he reached an age where he could understand the complexities of the situation, he simply believed that his mother's husband was his father; children aren't known for their discretion. Though I can't help but wonder if we chose incorrectly…"

"I wouldn't worry about it. What's done is done, and he seems to have come out all right, in the end. A bit too insistent on being a 'proper Nord', maybe, but there are worse things to be."

"His being half-Altmer won't be a problem for you?" Ondolemar asked, his brow furrowed in suspicion.

"Of course not. Why would it?" Marcel wondered if he should have actually read through his dossier before handing it off to Delphine. He wasn't naïve enough to think it said anything even remotely related to the truth, but if Ondolemar sincerely thought there was a risk of him turning on someone because of a little Altmer blood, he was faced with the troubling thought that the stories about him had gotten out of hand. A bit of healthy fear among the Thalmor's members was all good and well, but he liked to think that even propagandists had standards. "Even if you were loyal to the Thalmor, allegiances aren't genetic."

"Perhaps I misjudged you… I trust that you will not share this information with anyone. You, of all people, should well know the consequences if this reaches the wrong ears."

"Wouldn't dream of it. I don't think 'the wrong ears' would believe me, anyway."

"Good. Well, now that you've pried into all of my personal affairs worth prying into, what was your primary reason for coming here? I would like to reclaim my bed at some point tonight."

"Right. Edwin picked up a couple former Blades, and we're trying to reclaim some ancient temple from a group of Forsworn. I think it's called the Karthspire? There should be something about how we can stop this dragon mess in there, apparently. Do you know anything about them?"

"Where, in the name of the Eight Divines, did Edwin manage to find Blades, of all things?" Ondolemar asked, burying his head in his hands. "Wait. Don't answer, I don't want to know. I probably shouldn't know."

"So the Thalmor don't know we have Esbern yet. Great. Now, what do you know about the Karthspire?"

"That it's a Forsworn encampment that's been troubling the Reach for quite some time? They've taken possession of a cave, as well as their external camp; if you're looking for a temple, that seems as though it would be as good a place as any to begin your search." Ondolemar rummaged through a desk drawer for a moment, then handed the Dunmer a rolled-up piece of parchment. "The Jarl sent in a scout a month or so ago. He managed to sketch a crude map of the camp's layout. I can't say that I'd trust it overly far, but it's the best I can offer you."

"Thank you," Marcel replied, tucking the map safely away. He rolled off the bed, feeling a sense of satisfaction when he saw the rumpled blankets and indentation he'd left in the Altmer's pillows. "That's all I needed to know. Unless you feel inclined to stop me, I'll be taking my leave of you, now."

"Wait a moment. I have a request."

Marcel stopped, halfway out the door. "I'll keep Edwin safe, don't worry. …He asked me to tell you he said 'hello,' by the way."

"Did he? That's… more than I could have hoped for. Thank you. I'll trust you to keep your word on ensuring his safety. He's all I have left in this world; even the thought of losing him is difficult to bear."

"All right, then. I really do need to go, now. I'm assuming your guards won't keep away from you forever, and I'd prefer not to have to make a mess of them, if it's all the same to you. If I go back to Edwin and the others covered in blood, someone's going to get the wrong idea about what happened here."

And with that, Marcel took his final step out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He slipped out of Understone Keep without being seen by anyone but the guards at its door, and made his way back to Edwin's house. Ondolemar's map proved to be quite useful in planning their attack on the Karthspire Forsworn camp, and they ultimately decided to leave Markarth the next afternoon, in hopes of reaching the encampment just before nightfall. Their plans encountered another complication, however, when they realized that their party exceeded the number of beds in the house.

"Don't worry about it, Ed," Cosnach said. "I've still got my room in the Warrens. I wanted to check on some things before leavin' again, anyway."

"You're sure?" Edwin asked. "I'm sure we could figure something out, if you'd rather stay here."

"I'm sure," the Breton replied, glaring in Delphine's general direction. "I'll be more comfortable there. My hay pile sounds nicer than a bedroll on a stone floor." His expression softened as he turned to Marcel. "You're welcome to join me, if ya want."

"Only if Edwin's all right with being on his own with Delphine and Esbern," Marcel said. "I can stay if you want company, Ed. Delphine and I will only strangle each other a little, I promise."

Edwin rolled his eyes. "Just go. I can handle things fine on my own."

Marcel fought back a sigh of relief as he left the house with Cosnach. After his talk with Ondolemar, the opportunity to spend the night with someone so warm, in personality and temperature, was more than welcome. After unearthing memories he'd spent the past twenty-odd years trying to suppress, the prospect of sleeping alone was a daunting one. If he'd have managed to sleep at all.


	19. Lover's Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a bit of trouble writing the first part of this chapter, and while I'm happy with the way it turned out, I feel it's important to state that, in some ways, Marcel does not necessarily have the most healthy view of sex, and I do not in any way, shape, or form endorse or share said unhealthy views. On a less serious note, this chapter also contains evidence of what happens when you end up creating a headcanon backstory that could easily fill its own novel-length fanfic for a minor NPC, and get attached to a small, furry aspect of said backstory. I apologize if it seems completely out of place here, but it allowed for a bit of character bonding that wouldn't have worked, otherwise. Also, for those of you waiting for Serana, that plot now has its inciting incident. Because no matter how many times I reloaded, this was the least destructive outcome I could achieve from that particular vampire attack in my game.

"Well, look who's here," a red-haired Breton leaning against a pillar near the entrance of the Warrens called out. "Good timing – we were starting to worry you'd gone and died on us, Cosnach. Almost gave your room away; Divines know Cairine needs it more than you do."

"Why not give her Weylin's old place, then? He won't be needin' it anymore," Cosnach replied.

The red-haired Breton spat. "Can't do anything with it until the city guard finishes their 'investigation' into him going Forsworn. I ain't holding my breath on that one."

"Still don't have the guts to ask her to move in with you, Garvey?"

Garvey sputtered for a moment, blushing a shade similar to his hair, before he managed a flustered, "Go step in a Skeever den."

"Ain't we all in one already?"

"Nah. Skeever dens are warmer."

"Ya got me there." Cosnach sighed. "Did anyone actually die while I was away?"

"Not this time, thank the Eight," Garvey replied, his gaze drifting to Marcel for the first time when he cringed at the number. "Who's this you've dragged down with you?"

"His name's Marcel. We're…" Cosnach paused for a moment, casting a glance at Marcel. "Lovers?"

"That… sounds about right?" Marcel shrugged.

"Huh. Let's see how long this one lasts. Maybe you won't die alone, after all." Garvey tossed a key at Marcel, and looked almost disappointed when he caught it. "That'll get you into his room, if you ever come down here without him. Try not to make too much noise…"

"I won't if he doesn't," Marcel replied, feeling as though he'd swallowed a lead weight as he followed Cosnach back to his room. Sex with Cosnach was all good and well – he had no complaints on that front – but his conversation with Ondolemar had put a damper on any urges he might have felt in that direction for the night. And he'd gone and created an expectation for it, anyway, because he couldn't keep his damned mouth shut.

As Cosnach fiddled with the lock on his door, Marcel considered fabricating an excuse to run off and keep Edwin company for the night, but ultimately decided against it. He didn't have the first idea how he'd convince Cosnach he hadn't done something to chase him off, and he didn't want that kind of awkwardness interfering in however much longer their relationship would last. He'd probably feel more eager once he'd gotten warmed up a bit, anyway. Even if he couldn't convince himself to warm to the thought of the act itself… Well, he needed the precious few moments of closeness that came after. And after all his years of experience, he knew better than to ask for those on their own. Sweetness like that was for the young and innocent, if it existed outside of sappy, poorly-written novels at all, and he hadn't been either of those things for a long time.

The sound of Cosnach's door swinging shut behind him left him feeling more uncertain than he cared to admit, every muscle in his body tensing as he found himself frozen in place. If this was where caring for someone on more than a superficial level got him, perhaps he was better suited to a life without meaningful connections.

"Are you all right, Marcel?" Cosnach asked, brows furrowed in a concerned frown. "Ya seem a bit… off."

Marcel took a deep breath to steady himself before replying, "I'm fine. Just a bit tired."

"Did something happen with Ondolemar?"

"I didn't kill him, if that's what you're asking."

"I didn't think you did. But… there's gotta be something on your mind, right? I've never seen you make that face before."

"I'm making a face?"

"Kinda."

Marcel sighed, trying to force his mind into a more rational state, and his face into a more neutral expression. When had he grown so thin-skinned? A war more than twenty years past had no right to hold such power over him, or leave him feeling so unbalanced through memories alone.

The feeling of Cosnach's warm, calloused hand on his own dragged Marcel back into himself enough for him to find the will to move, if nothing else, and he let himself be led across the cramped, dimly-lit room and sat down on a soft, fur-covered pile of straw. He tensed when Cosnach sat down next to him, fully expecting to be guided further down and pressed into the straw and furs in a reenactment of their first night together.

Instead, Cosnach wrapped an arm around his shoulders, drew him close, and just… held him there. "You know you can talk about it if ya need to, right? I don't mind."

Marcel was silent for a moment, then sighed and leaned into his lover's embrace. "I assume you're familiar with the Great War?"

"'Course I am. I wasn't there for it, or anything, but my parents were. Not that I learned about it from them – they both died when I was little – but I'd have needed to live under a rock or somethin' to not know about it. You fought in it, then?"

"Not in an official sense, but yes. I'd probably feel better about my involvement, had I been official, but they were smart enough to know my skills lay elsewhere when I tried to enlist as a soldier. I spent the war doing off-the-books assassinations, instead, so you won't find my name on any monuments. After the war ended, while the real soldiers were praised for their service, I stood trial as a war criminal. I knew when I signed on that no one in power intended to take responsibility for my actions, but facing a hangman's noose tends to make things feel somewhat more real. In the end, I was 'generously pardoned' in exchange for the empire overlooking a few unsavory actions from Skyrim's lovely First Emissary, and got to fade into shameful obscurity after that.

"I'm not saying the actual battlefields were pretty or glorious; I witnessed enough of their aftermath to rid me of any illusions I might have held on their true nature. There is, however, something to be said for having people around you to keep you in check when you fight, and support you when the fighting's done. You get to stay human when you're part of an army. My job was to not be human. If the enemy thought of me as anything more than a vengeful spirit, I'd failed in my primary objective. I didn't have much in the way of free time to get back in touch with myself between targets, with all the travel it had me doing, either. It led to… things I'm not entirely proud of, to say the least. All on the Emperor's orders, of course, but that's a poor excuse. I don't recall a moment of it fondly; particularly the stay in a Thalmor prison camp it led to at one point."

"So, talking to Ondolemar brought all that back, and you ain't doing well with it?"

"In short, yes."

"I can't say I blame ya. We had a man livin' down here for a while who'd spent time in one of those camps during the war; anything that reminded him of it too much sent him running off and cowering in a corner 'til he remembered where he was."

"What happened to him?"

"One day, he just up and dug himself a grave, climbed into it, and cut his wrists open."

"Well, there's a comforting thought."

Cosnach cringed. "Sorry. Probably shouldn't have mentioned that. I don't think you're anywhere near that bad, if that helps any. And, well… I think you're plenty human – or whatever the elf word for that is – no matter what ya did."

Marcel smiled and buried his face in Cosnach's shoulder, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. He blinked them out of existence before they could fall through sheer force of will. "'Human' is more than enough… Thank you."

Cosnach ran a hand over his hair. "Are you gonna be all right?"

"As 'all right' as I ever am," Marcel replied, pressing a kiss to Cosnach's shoulder. "Do we have more than a snowflake's chance in Oblivion of finding something that isn't watered down at the inn? I need a drink. A real drink."

"Probably not, unless you're secretly related to the Jarl or the Silver-Bloods. Ed's mother was the only other person I can think of who's gotten a decent drink out of Kleppr. And even she had Ondolemar in her pocket."

"You know about that?"

"Yeah… Walked in on somethin' I shouldn't have when I was younger. When ya think about it, Ed makes a lot more sense that way."

"That he does. We make a fine party of mongrels, don't we?"

"You, too?"

"Yep. Half Imperial, if my mother's to be believed. Never met my father, myself, so I can't say what he was for certain."

"Huh. I guess ya do have the nose for it."

"You noticed it, too? Now I really need a drink."

"That happens a lot?"

"More than I'd like it to. It isn't the most flattering thing to have as one's defining physical characteristic."

"Well, it's not the first thing I noticed about you… And," Cosnach said, removing his arm from Marcel's shoulders as he stood, "I think I might be able to find you that drink you need. How d'you feel about mead?"

"I enjoy it when it's done right."

"Great." Cosnach disappeared into the shadows at the back of the room. "I've got some of the good stuff in here somewhere; I've been savin' it for a rainy day, but I'd rather-" A sharp, indignant squeak cut him off, and the rest of his sentence turned into a long string of apologies.

Marcel turned toward the source of the noise, and an unusually well-groomed giant rat streaked across the room before settling, still squeaking to itself, at his side.

"Don't hurt her!" Cosnach called out, still lost in shadow. "Lily's friendly; she's just mad about me steppin' on her tail."

"Lily?"

"I figured it was a good name for a girl."

"So, she's your giant rat?"

"She's a skeever, but yeah. Sort of. She takes care of herself, mostly, and she's got tunnels just about everywhere in the Warrens, but she usually lives here." Cosnach returned to the pile of straw, case of mead in hand, and sat down on Marcel's other side. "I took her in when she was a baby, and she's kept me company this past year, after Ed left. She earns her keep, too; now that she's grown, she keeps all the other skeevers out."

"Don't like sharing your territory, eh?" Marcel asked, scratching Lily behind her ears. "I don't blame you; I'm quite taken with him, myself."

"You don't have any problems with me havin' a Skeever around?"

"Of course not. I had one of my own, as a child. I'm just glad you didn't get a dog for company. The damn things tend to hate me on sight."

"Dogs cost a lot more to feed, and they need space to run. I couldn't have kept one down here, if I wanted to. Besides," Cosnach reached over Marcel and dragged Lily onto his lap, "Lily's better than some dog, anyway. Aren't ya, girl? Cleaner, too."

Lily gave no response, simply sniffing at Cosnach for a moment, yawning, and curling up on his lap, draping her tail across Marcel's as an afterthought.

"That she is," Marcel replied. "Now, about that drink you mentioned…"

"Right here." Cosnach handed him a bottle of mead, retrieving one for himself, as well. "There's more where that came from, if you end up needin' it."

"This is better than going to the inn, already." Marcel removed his key to Cosnach's room from his pocket, turning its warm metal over in his hand. "While I'm still sober enough to remember, you can have this back, if you'd rather I didn't have it. I don't want to impose on your hospitality."

"Keep it; I'd have given you one myself, if Garvey didn't beat me to it. We're lovers, right? It's what you're s'posed to do."

"We are… Thank you." Marcel turned the key over once more before returning it to his pocket and taking a long drink of his mead. If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn it had grown warmer at Cosnach's insistence that he keep it. "It's a nice thought, isn't it?"

Several drinks later, Lily had abandoned them, and Marcel had taken her place lying across Cosnach's lap. "I'm sorry I went and dampened our spirits tonight," he drawled, "But I'm not sorry it turned out like this. It's nice. You're nice."

"Don't worry about it. I was worried you were gonna tell me you were married, or somethin', so I'm just happy things didn't go that way. Don't wanna do that again; it went bad enough to first time."

"I don't think it ever goes anything but bad. Bad with rolling pins, if you're unlucky. You're safe, though. I'm not married, I swear. Never have been."

"Really? How? I know I'd marry you." Cosnach laughed. "I'd marry you twice!"

Marcel snorted. "You don't mean that."

"But I do… I'd be a fool to turn down a chance at marryin' a man like you."

"You're drunk."

"No, I'm not."

"Fine, but you've still had enough mead for it to go to your head."

"How d'you know?"

"Because it's gone to my head, and you've had more than I have."

"So? It's like Edwin said, I'm squishier'n you. I can hold my mead better."

"I'm taller than you, what's your point?"

"Bein' tall don't mean nothin'."

"Either way, we've both had too much to drink."

"I'll drink to that."

"As will I."

Marcel fell asleep sandwiched between Cosnach and Lily, feeling warmer and more satisfied than he had in years in the knowledge that simple physical closeness wasn't beyond his reach, after all. He paid a visit to the Hag's Cure the next morning, under the half-true pretense of needing a hangover cure, and collected his payment for the Dufont contract from a grateful Muiri. If she was disappointed that he hadn't killed Nilsine Shatter-Shield, as well, she made no mention of it. He just hoped that Astrid would be as understanding of him forfeiting his bonus, if she knew about it in the first place. As ramshackle as the Dark Brotherhood's condition had become, he had no desire to lose his place in it over a stray moment of concern for a client's moral well-being.

When he encountered a small army of people on his way back to the Warrens, Edwin among them, clustered around a pair of fresh corpses, one with its throat torn out and the other with a hammer lodged in its skull, his heart felt as though it had stopped beating until he fought his way through the crowd to Edwin's side, and found Cosnach standing beside him. He pressed himself closer to his lover than was absolutely necessary, even in their limited space. He could ponder why he'd had such a strong reaction over such a ridiculous concern later; for the moment, all that mattered was that Cosnach was safe.

"What happened?" he asked, more from a desire to fill space than genuine interest.

"Vampires," Cosnach replied. "There've been problems with them all over the Reach for a while, now, but this is the first time they've made it into Markarth. Tacitus might've been terrible at smithing, but the poor sod deserved better than this... Always treated the smelter workers right, when he went down there."

"At least he took one of them down with him," Edwin said. "He died with honor."

"Honor ain't gonna make him any less dead, Ed. I don't think he cares, wherever he is now."

"I know. As soon as we're done with Sky Haven Temple, we're finding those bastards and making them pay. There's no point in fighting dragons if vampires kill everyone while I'm doing it."


End file.
